Redeeming Intentions
by WeAreAllStoriesInTheEnd
Summary: What if Sarah couldn't go through with her Red Test? After being forced off grid, she is recruited to help bring down a CIA conspiracy in order to guarantee her freedom. Along the way, she befriends a young man who's caught in the midst of it all. AU! C/S
1. Prologue

**A/n: **My muse has been going crazy with plot bunnies lately and I decided I'd publish them to see how well-received they are. Don't worry about _Life Imitating Art, _because it's not ending anytime soon. I just wanted to focus on a Chuck story rather than Zachonne. This is a product of reading The Hunger Games (A great trilogy) and wanting to try a hand at that interesting writing style—first person, present. That, and there are some AU stories floating around and I wanted to contribute in my own way.

Basically, this timeline is if Sarah never completed her Red Test and ended up being recruited by Orion to help bring down the conspiracy that Agent Clyde Decker spoke of at the end of the Season 4 Finale. I really don't have much plot thought out, but I know there will be heavy Chuck/Sarah so that's all that matters, right?

Feel free to drop a review and give your honest opinion!

**A/N 1/0/12: **This is just a quick reminder that I've edited (and revised) Part I of this story. All of my mistakes—which shouldn't be so glaringly obvious anymore—are my own.

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

February 12th, 2003

"_Now, I think that all of us are born with a hole in our hearts, and we go around looking for the person who can fill it."_

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><p>They've been after me since Paris.<p>

And I haven't stopped running. There hasn't been time for rest. No backwards glances or sighs of relief. To consider letting up—even just a little bit, is a luxury I cannot afford. I _do_ want to live.

That much I know.

The plan for now is to avoid capture, and yes the always viable option of being killed too. The latter is a lot more likely considering what I've done, so anticipating the worst case scenario helps kick my most basic instincts into overdrive.

I'm running on self-preservation alone. Always thinking of what my next move will be. I like to pretend this is a game, a game that I will not lose. There's no such thing as a rematch after defeat. Defeat is a onetime thing. Defeat means death. And I for one do not want a knife in the back or a bullet to the heart.

I've come too far to die like this.

Alone.

My pursuers are hot on this wayward trail of mine. Flames nipping at the heels close. I can feel them almost haunting me like some kind of persistent specter. Whether they're miles behind or countries apart, their presence remains. Lingering as a shadow would.

Distance is meaningless. You can't view it objectively as if it were a map. Not when your opponent is an omnipotent agency such as the CIA. They have the entire world at their disposal. This is their playground, their endless sandbox. I am just the new toy that they have chosen to busy themselves with.

Maybe they'll get bored of me. Its wishful thinking, but I can dream. I know that the odds aren't exactly in my favor. I'm pitted in pretty much what can constitute as an "unwinnable situation". But that's been my life story, and I've managed thus far. So I'll continue to do what I do best, hoping for some kind of miracle.

I'll run.

Until the very end.

I find myself running so much that I am beginning to think that danger actually enjoys following me around wherever I go. I suppose it's to be expected. I haven't led the most "honorable" life, thanks to all-around poor decisions that originally began with good intentions.

Is it so horrible that I wanted to redeem myself for my mistakes? I wanted that fabled second chance to start anew. What I got instead was quite the opposite. One god awful decision and now I'm watching my hopes crash and burn, my bright future winking out of existence.

I did a bad thing.

I stole a valuable asset from the CIA.

Me.

I have been the CIA's top operative for the last five years. I know, its hard to believe that someone like me (twenty-two, female) could ever be considered one of, if not the best spies in the business. But it is what it is. And I am what I am.

Or was.

The Agency had put all their proverbial eggs in one basket with regards to me. They were generous with the funds used to train and educate me, so that I'd inevitably become their ideal solider—the wildcard enforcer, as I am often referred to as today.

I was only eighteen when recruited, and that's just a technicality. Daughter of a petty conman who sometimes got in over his head, I had no real ambitions in life except to avoid prison and plan for the next con. In the summer of 1998, my father was arrested. He left me a cache of money just in case for such an occasion, and I was about to flee from San Diego and start over.

Unfortunately, I was caught by the Director of the CIA before I could make a clean getaway. Langston Graham. He tracked me down, insisted I'd leave behind this unlawful lifestyle and use my talents elsewhere, for the greater good. And against my better judgment I reluctantly accepted his offer.

They call me Sarah Walker now.

It's a name I have grown accustomed to over time. I'm still getting used to it, as it's the longest I've ever had a single identity to keep track of. But I like it. It suits me. Director Graham was smart to choose it as my alias. Same initials as my birth name: SW. It reflects closest to who I _used _to be (a young girl with braided pigtails, a little too innocent for this world) and what I _am_. It helped me to realize that Samantha Lisa Weston died the instant I hopped into my father's beaten car all those years ago.

Since formally joining the CIA, my career in espionage had been short, but active. When not staying stateside for mandatory training, I'd travel to perhaps the ugliest places in modern civilization. The greed, the lies, and the death were aplenty. The evil, it thrived on depravity and hatred. And the CIA was convinced that _I _was the corrupt one.

I had little to no reservations in what I was assigned to do on those missions. I'd dismantle terrorist organizations, or underground sex circuits without a single complaint. You could say that the post 9/11 world had played an integral part in heightening my patriotism. I wanted nothing more than to aid in the downfall of every last unjust genocide, brutal dictator or anti-westernized rogue bent on humanity's extinction.

My record with the CIA was impeccable. I completed over a handful of missions successfully. Yet, my status as an official agent was still pending. It didn't take long for Director Graham to see that I was ready for the final step in my training. He was impressed with my progress. He thought I could handle what came next.

The Red Test.

My final exam.

The objective of the Red Test is lethally simple: track and assassinate the mark. The mark in question was a woman with dark eyes and lushes, thick hair. No name. Supposedly, she was a double agent and extremely dangerous.

I was then given a time and place.

Paris, France. Midnight.

I remember all of it with terrible clarity. The deadline was fast approaching and somewhere in the dimly lit alleyways lurked my superiors. They were no doubt watching my every move. If I didn't act, they sure would. This caused for my burden to weigh heavier than before. My heart twisting like a rag, and I had no clue how it could continue beating in the face of this.

It was now or never. I had to murder someone that I don't even know.

I willed myself to take the shot, but pulling the trigger was never so difficult. My finger wanted to make that squeezing motion, but my mind wouldn't allow it. A bad case of cognitive dissonance or the miracle I had been waiting for, I didn't question it. I had my epiphany and understood exactly what to do.

This was my last chance to be free. I had asked myself why I'd waste this moment, especially when another opportunity like this may never come. I had to take it or else I'd always be a prisoner in life. Whether it'd be a prisoner to my father, or the CIA.

I'd never be free.

In the end, the mark did not feel the hot piercing of lead on that cold night. But she did get shoved to the ground, playing the role as my decoy while I whispered a warning to run. Everything became a giant blur after that.

She never replied but vanished into the darkness. Gunshots rang out an instant later. I managed to escape through a deserted street that emptied into a populated area. Finally I hailed a taxi. To this day, I continue to wonder if those bullets were meant for me, or the mark. I get the feeling they were probably meant for the both of us.

All of this happened a month ago.

As of now, I am currently hiding in a rural town in the outskirts of some Italian suburb. I am prepared to remain international for as long as I can. At least until my money and contacts run dry.

Sometimes I consider returning to the United States. But even as a spy, I know it's suicidal. If I go back, it won't just be me that suffers. Protecting the ones I love outweighs my desperation. I won't be going back. I'm not ready to put others in danger, and I am definitely not ready to die just yet.

So most of my days are spent holed in an empty café, reading the newspapers or catching a "footie" match. I try to relax before I'll have to eventually move on again. I'm thinking Spain or maybe Greece.

It's early afternoon; beautiful, cloudless skies leave me amazed at such pristine February weather. I enjoy some coffee while lounging at a table beside an open window. There's no football today. Just comfortable silence and the welcoming hum of an Italian melody.

When the song ends, I notice a pair of eyes watching me from afar. They belong to a shadowy figure sitting at the corner of the café, dressed in a trench-coat and hat. Well, that's not suspicious at all.

I am ready to sprint out of the door, even fight if I have to. I probably have stayed in Italy for far too long. But there is no need. The figure—a man, he comes forward and takes a seat opposite of me. He removes his hat and sets it on the table. I can now see his face and my concerns magically disappear.

He is middleaged with shaggy hair and guilt-filled eyes. I've never seen such hollowness in a person's gaze before. Its a bit unsettling. He has seen too much, done too much…lost too much.

We exchange pleasantries. He does not give me a real name, rather an alias instead. Orion. The constellation of the hunter; it's vaguely familiar but not enough to jog my memory. He isn't CIA, which is reassuring. He's also on the run, just like me, not specifying why, but its enough for me to feel somewhat safe. I can feel the beginning of a mutual trust building between us.

Orion is straightforward with his demands. He wants to make a deal. I don't really approve of "deals," but I can make an exception. I remain seated and wordlessly confirm that I'm at least slightly interested in what he has to say.

He goes on to elaborate on the particulars, needs me to locate someone back in the US. I take a nervous sip from my coffee. Orion notes my ambivalence right away. He quickly assures me that I will be safe and wired the necessary funds to complete the mission successfully. He adds that this person not only has to be found, but also needs my protection.

"He's only a civilian," Orion explains hastily. I nod absently and cross my legs beneath the table, draining the remains of the coffee mug. "So it's imperative to be careful when first introducing yourself to him. Try not to attract suspicion, so refrain from guns or combat, and you'll need a cover as well…"

He rambles on about the logistics of my cover identity but I listen halfheartedly. This assignment is shaping to be more like babysitting a child. Now I'm questioning why I am even considering this.

The worst possible idea is to be gallivanting around the United States while their government wants me buried six feet under. Orion must understand the risks. It has to be why he's not collecting this mystery individual himself and rather enlisting in my help. Apparently he doesn't feel comfortable enough to return there either.

Which brings me to another interesting point.

Why me? What do I bring to the metaphorical table that no other freelancer can? Hell, I'm not even a freelancer. I am a drop-out spy.

Suddenly, I lower my gaze and see a manila folder magical appear before me. When I open the flap to reveal the contents inside, Orion continues describing where I'd rendezvous with his colleague.

A relatively thin dossier slides onto the tabletop. There is a tiny blurb of personal info as well as a snapshot attached to the file. I rifle through the pages and gloss over the miscellaneous information before settling on the photograph. My demeanor shifts from boredom to interest in a heartbeat.

The resemblance is uncanny.

The Polaroid depicts a man almost identical in likeness to Orion. They have to be related somehow. He appears to be somewhere in his early twenties, but his boyish looks suggests he can be a lot younger. A mop of curls flops over his bright eyes. His lips stretch into a wide grin that shows all of his teeth. It is a still image but the sheer happiness that the man exudes is captivating. I can't seem to pry my eyes off him.

_Not good_, I think.

According to the bio, he is six foot four inches (Sasquatch), twenty-one years old (frat boy), and Caucasian . His IQ is through the roof (gifted). He currently is a senior at Stanford University (granted a full-ride academic scholarship no less) and majors in Electrical Engineering.

Charles Irving Bartowski seems to be quite the guy.

I want to give Orion the impression that I am a professional. That I can be trusted, capable of protecting Bartowski. So I don't express my genuine fascination for the boy, and choose to react coolly instead.

However I can't help to chance another glimpse at the picture. It doesn't' hurt that Bartowski has that cute nerdy look about him. Even in high school, when I went by Jenny Burton, I was a bit of a geek myself. After these years, I still can relate to the stigma.

Lifting my eyes from the dossier, I find Orion smiling at me. He must've caught me ogling at the photograph. Dammit. That's unfitting for a former spy of the CIA. I mentally chastise myself, then vow to figure out how this man can play me so well.

"Where am I meeting with Mr. Bartowski?" I ask flatly, wanting to detract from the red flush against my cheeks.

Orion averts his gaze, mumbling. "There has been a change of plans. Charles was recently expelled from Stanford. Yesterday actually…he will be facing the College Judicial Hearing per university protocol during the weekend. Then he'll be leaving on a train from Palo Alto to Los Angeles that Monday at its earliest departure."

My eyebrows shoot up in mild surprise. _He was expelled? It has to be foul play. _I haven't even met the kid yet and I already feel obligated to defend his honor.

I ask. "Why was he kicked out?"

"It was my mistake, just trying to protect him….so please don't misjudge Charles as some sort of delinquent."

Orion says nothing more and I choose to not push it. I'll find out the rest on my own. "Alright, so what am I exactly supposed to do with an ex-college student? Is there a message that needs to be given, is he in danger…or?"

"—if you can give him these when you're somewhere private," he hands me an interesting pair of sunglasses. I examine them, frowning confusedly. "Make sure that they do not fall into the wrong hands….it is essential that you remember that."

I dubiously stow both the sunglasses and dossier into a backpack that I snagged while traveling the touristy cites around Rome from a week ago. This conversation has had its ups and downs, much like a roller coaster ride. Orion's eccentric behavior coupled with his cryptic instructions, is a tad worrisome. But much preferred over some sadistic bastard. So there's at least that to keep my concerns at bay.

There's a nagging part of my brain that wonders what I am getting myself into.

"Who's after him?" I ask lowly.

His response is clear and leaves shivers running down my spine. "The same people who are after you."

Keeping the pretense that I am calm and collected, I can only muster the strength to nod. "We will remain in close contact in case something does happen, correct?"

Relief crosses his aging face and he stands up. I follow and we shake hands. He grabs the hat and gives me a truly grateful smile, "Of course. Trust when I say that I'll have your back…"

I involuntarily chew on my bottom lip, following up with another question. "Why did you choose me? I mean, I still don't understand the importance of this or why I am even agreeing to it…"

"Charles won't believe what I have to tell him," Orion says with a touch of sadness. "We did not part on the greatest terms…but I thought after reading the reports about your stint in Paris last month, that you'd be the perfect candidate to help me with things that the CIA wouldn't dare pursue."

"And Charles Bartowski fits into this how?"

"He is very special," Orion taps his forehead with a finger and it leaves me even more perplexed. "Once you get the glasses to him, we can take this mission to the next step. Charles is the key."

_This feels suspiciously like a conspiracy, _I realize. "I hope we're not alone on this."

"No, I have others on the inside, so don't worry about any of that. Focus on the mission at hand, Agent Walker."

I interject for the last time, "after I give him the glasses…then what?"

"Keep him safe until we can communicate safely."

Orion has a pen in his hand and scribbles something onto my napkin. He folds it in half then pushes it across the table. I don't remove my eyes from him but take the napkin and hide it beneath my palm.

"I'll do my best," I say.

I'm startled by my words. Mostly because they actually sound sincere. That's a first.

He nods. "Help my son."

His son.

That's his son.

Before I can open my mouth to either confirm or deny that, yes I'll help his _son_, Orion is gone without so much as a goodbye. I am back to sitting at the table alone, this time rapping my knuckles against the hard surface while in deep thought. Lifting my palm, I unfold the napkin then flatten it out. In messy handwriting there is a message. It reads: _1 or 11._

I don't have the faintest idea to what it means. So I don't dare venture to guess. My head hurts enough as it is, muddled from being off grid and coming to grips with this unexpected meeting. Perhaps Orion's son could tell me the meaning behind those numbers if we ever do meet.

_Orion, _my brows scrunch up in concentration. _Where have I heard that before? _

It's on the tip of my tongue. Orion. Perseus. Yes, there were two of them. A pair of constellations that were also... Scientists? That's right. They were partners that worked concurrently on some classified assignment that I was supposed to be admitted to after completing my Red Test.

Director Graham had thought I was a perfect candidate for the program. It came down to me, and another fellow agent whom I met once before at the Academy. Some cocky rookie named Bryce...something.

I sigh.

Now this is _really _beginning to feel like a conspiracy.

Great.

I shake out of my thoughts and remove myself from the table. I need to get out of this place. So I collect my belongings and prepare to leave, possibly to buy some items for when I return to the United States. Fortunately, Orion was helpful enough to include a ready-made passport inside the manila folder as well as a wad of cash.

I sling the backpack over my shoulder and walk towards the front door. My fingers prod the photograph of Orion's son that I stashed in my jean pocket. I retrieve it, and study the image.

He looks so innocent and it drives me crazy. With questions mostly. Why does this guy have to be involved in something so dangerous? Looks can be deceiving. Maybe there's more to this? More to him?

I stare long and hard at the Polaroid. I commit his appearance to memory. His happiness is contagious; making the corners of my lips twitch into my first smile in months.

Charles Irving Bartowski.

I shut my eyes and draw a breath of oxygen, letting it fill my lungs.

_Don't freak out._

When I reopen them, the glimmer of afternoon sunlight shines through the stain glass windows. I make my departure without a sound, shuffling outside the café to where the entire world is laid out before me. Certainly, I am ready to deal with whatever comes my way.

I hope.

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><p><strong>An: <strong>So how was that? Next chapter (if there is one) will introduce Chuck into it. The entire story will remain in Sarah's POV.


	2. Chapter One

**An:**So here's chapter one! I still only have an inkling of where this story is going to go, but I can assure you that it'll have ample amounts of Chuck/Sarah regardless! I know some of you are wary of the writing style, but please just give it a chance. You'll get used to it. Hopefully.

Enjoy Chapter One and please review if you can!

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><p>Part I<strong>: <strong>Chapter One

**The Boy**

February 15th—18th, 2003

_"Only equals speak the truth. Friends and lovers lie endlessly, caught in the web or regard."_

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><p>My father has this motto: <em>Once you know all the cons, you can never be a sucker. <em>

He constantly used this to try and justify our lives with it. The moral ambiguity wasn't lot on me even at a young age, as I knew our "adventures" weren't exactly kosher. And yet there was still some truth to these words. If there's a will to master the art of deception, then surely there's a way to become impervious to deceit itself.

From then to now, I've been governed by this particular mentality. It's the staple of everything I hope to be, making my ambitions pretty simple: I never want to be the victim. I've suffered more than my fair share of misfortune because of those present in my life; from a family I thought had loved me unconditionally, to the CIA who promised so much but delivered little. Everyone has lied to me, abandoned me somehow. Their betrayals were difficult. Difficult to understand and cope with since they effectively threw what's left of my innocence right out the proverbial window.

So it's not shocking that I ended up being this cynical. My faith in humanity has been jaded by years of cheating and scheming to make ends meet on a daily basis. I know nothing else. And I don't really trust anyone but myself. That is one thing that I can take away from the CIA. They taught me that vulnerability makes you weak, ripe for manipulation. I learned my lesson when I figured they were exploiting me this entire time. I won't make these kinds of mistakes again.

It's only me, myself, and I now.

Despite what events have shaped my life, I still hang onto to the hope that someday things will change. Preferably for the better. I want to be normal. I want to live the American dream with the white picket fence future that so many people yearn for, but always seem to fall short of. I want a family; a house filled with kids, a loving husband, and maybe even a dog too.

But I always seem to want what I can't have. So until I can get away from the CIA once and for all, I can't keep dwelling on the impossible. Its incentive though. To beat the odds or else die trying. Because coming back to the United States has made me realize that my next breath can very well be my last.

Which is why I need to be at the top of my game.

No slip-ups. Trust no one.

And if there is one thing that know to be positively true, regardless of who I am today or will be tomorrow, it is that I am _not, _nor ever will be a sucker.

The CIA can attest to that.

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><p>I arrive on US soil when the plane first touches down on a long strip of runway belonging to the San Jose International Airport. My attention has been preoccupied during most of time in the air. I am divided: half is concern for my predicament while the other half weighs on the eventual meeting with Orion's prodigal son.<p>

It's weird. I am worried about making a good impression, and that makes me laugh. That has to be irrational. Why would I be nervous of what Charles Bartowski, a harmless civilian, thinks of me? This is a mission for crying out loud. Not a blind date. I have to be pragmatic. Bartowski is merely an asset, my duty to protect and nothing else.

I have a feeling that I will be repeating this mantra a lot.

When the plane lands, the voice of the pilot announces through the intercom that we can now safely exit to the terminal. He wishes everyone aboard a nice day. It's a miserable overcast Monday morning, so I doubt "nice" is an accurate send-off.

I'm barely listening anyway. My thoughts block all the surrounding noises like its static. I absently collect my backpack, keeping my head down as I travel to the arrival parking lot. There, I request a taxi. It takes me straight to the closest train station about ten miles away.

Game time is T-minus twenty minutes.

I've decided during my extensive time spent traveling from Italy to Philadelphia, that I won't be catching the train at Palo Alto. Being ex-CIA, I assume there are probably agents already tailing Bartowski. Alerting them of my presence will result in serious...complications. Like death, for example. I'll bypass the unnecessary confrontation if I board at San Jose.

So that's the plan.

Always subject to change of course.

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><p>I'm waiting patiently at the platform for the train to pull into its terminal. It's due for an afternoon arrival, and it's almost 1pm. Anxiety sneaks up on me again; a blend of unease coupled with excitement. Again, its wholly irrational and so I can't exactly abstain from it. So I let it run its course while preparing for what will determine the overall tone of this mission.<p>

Oh boy.

As soon as I'm aboard the train, I make sure to stand near the entrance. Like any good spy should, I acquaint myself with my surroundings. I mentally check off the interior layout, the emergency exits are accounted for in case I run into CIA and need to make a quick escape.

When the passengers begin filling inside, some shoot me judgmental looks while others whisper nasty remarks that are just loud enough for me to overhear. I feel agitated by their rude comments, but then again, I'm not entirely surprised.

Before I left Italy, I had time to get my affairs in order. That meant working on establishing a cover. I took all precautions necessary so that I could move about the general public undetected. My alias remains unchanged while my appearance undergoes a makeover.

The first to go is my hair. It was cut above the shoulders; short, choppy and dyed dirty-blonde. Next came the addition of a new wardrobe, and finally a liberal amount of cosmetics. The mascara makes me resemble more of a raccoon than a woman in my demographic. I'm stuck wearing thigh-high boots, skin tight jeans, and a low cut, busty v-neck shirt.

I miss my old clothes.

I'm sure I look like those popular girls from high school, the Heather Chandlers of the adult world. But I suppose that's what I'm sort of going for. No one will suspect the bimbo of being a highly-trained spy. That's why their contempt _shouldn't _bother me at all.

With pursed lips, I dismiss every single pointed glare I receive and decide to begin my search for Bartowski. As I leave, there's a high-pitch whistle and the doors close mercifully behind me. I jump a little, the train starting to move.

It embarks along the California coast with the ocean running parallel to the tracks as it remains to effortlessly stagnant while we race like a blur.

The speed takes me by surprise, and I grab a metal beam located horizontal to the ceiling for support. Out of nowhere, I am hit with full blown jet lag. Legs are reduced to jelly as I struggle to remain upright.

Just my luck.

At least the trip from San Jose to LA will take ten hours or so. All of it will be spent in a compartment, which gives me ample time to recuperate without having to worry about the off-chance of a car chase or gunfight.

_Don't jinx it, _I tell myself. _Assuming that this will be a piece of cake is ignorant. I wouldn't be surprised if there's already a CIA assassin stowed somewhere on the train..._

A man donned in an official blue uniform approaches me from a blind spot to my left. I grow tense on instinct, thinking of the assassin. But he only asks for my ticket and I sheepishly flash the stub without speaking. He validates it and simply moves along to the other passengers. When he turns around, I slip into the next cart.

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><p>I spend a lot more of my time looking for Charles Bartowski than I originally planned. By now I am exhausted and running low on patience. I have his photograph out as a visual aid while I travel to each compartment with no success. When I reach the end of the cart, I resign myself to defeat. What if I made a mistake?<p>

Is this is the wrong train? No, no. Orion made it clear that Bartowski would be on the Coastal Starlight Express. I'm on the damn contraption and there's no sign of him anywhere.

I lean against a wall, dragging a hand over my face with exhaustion. I have a terrifying thought. What if this was an elaborate trick orchestrated by Orion to lure me back to CIA custody? He's on their to-do list, so maybe I'm being used as a pawn. I'll distract the CIA so Orion can safely drop off grid.

I shut my eyes, and refrain from cursing aloud. Does he even have a son? Was his existence merely a fabrication to lead me here to my own demise?

Bile rises in my throat as I consider this. I feel physically sick for blindly trusting this man I hardly know.

Every part of me screams to run. It's a compulsive, knee-jerk reaction and I'm not dumb enough to ignore what my gut is telling me. On instinct, my feet quicken their pace while ideas spring to mind.

_Should I try and wait it out till the next pit stop? _I pause to consider an alternative. _What are the chances that I can survive jumping out of a moving train?_

I come to a dead-end but I'm still undecided. Paranoia releases a sudden burst of adrenaline, and I break into a hysterical sprint. _Screw it, I'm jumping._

For the time it takes me to reach the end of the train, I am in the process of recalling how to do a proper barrel roll. My eyes are cast down and I miss the last compartment door sliding open, as well as the man emerging out into the hallway.

We collide.

The impact is jarring, but neither of us are knocked onto the wine-colored carpet floor. Amazingly enough, we're both fine. Somehow I was caught before I could lose my balance and drag the two of us down. There's a hand settled on the curve of my hip while I feel the other firmly pressed against the small of my back.

My eyes had closed before we crashed. So I see nothing but darkness, yet I have no trouble visualizing how we must look. Our compromising position notwithstanding, I decide it is alright to properly greet my savior.

"Hey, um, are you alright?"

Warm brown eyes peer down at me, accompanied by a voice laden with genuine sincerity that leaves me speechless. It's uncommon for words to fail me, and now I understand what the old adage, to be deer caught in the headlights, means.

It becomes obvious how awkward this situation must be the instant I recognize that the young man's cheeks are turning scarlet. He swallows, letting me go as I take a step backwards and compose myself.

He stares at me with a funny sort of look. His giant headphones have been removed from his mop of curls and presently hang around his neck. I can hear the faintest sounds of music playing from his iPod. That alone brings me back into focus.

Well, sort of.

It's as if I'm back at the café in Italy. Only where I was only staring at a photograph before, now I am face-to-face with the real person. Or to be more accurate, I am face-to-shoulders with him.

He's _so_ tall. It has to be some kind of genetic abnormality. Like a Sasquatch. A skinny, lanky Sasquatch. Same with his hair. It's messy, and I doubt any kind of product can straighten it out or make it lie flat. His curls cascade over his chocolate brown eyes. He has the stature of a giant, but the features of a boy.

He wears a faded red Stanford sweatshirt, jeans and a pair of converse high tops. It's scary how nearly identical he is in regards to the photo. But there is something definitely amiss. It takes a second, then it clicks. That spark of life that had me so mesmerized, it's gone. His demeanor is a subdued, nervous.

Other than that, there is no doubt in my mind that this is Charles Irving Bartowski.

Relief washes over me. I was never betrayed by Orion. The CIA is not on the train planning to arrest or kill me. Paranoia had just gotten the best of me. I am safe, for now at least, and the plan remains mostly intact.

_I found him, _I think happily. _Or he found me._

I smile, finding my voice along with a new sense of hope.

"Oh, I am fine," I assure him brightly. He looks amused, maybe even a bit taken aback by my unexpected burst of enthusiasm. "I'm so sorry for running into you like that. It was my fault. I wasn't paying attention to where I was going."

His lips curve upward. "You did seem to be in kind of a hurry. For a moment, I thought you were just distracted by something, or that the train was being hijacked by bandits." He shrugs. "I was sorta hoping for the latter. Y'know, I always wanted to be in an old Spaghetti Western. Like the _The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, _or _The Magnificent Seven…"_

He trails off on about what apparently are supposed to be films. I listen to him ramble, mostly out of curiosity. He notices my confusion and goes mute, shifting on the balls of his shoes and mumbles sheepishly. "Sorry, I kind of got carried away there. I, um, tend to do that a lot."

I nod. "Babble nonsensically, you mean?"

He blushes. "Yeah, that."

His quirkiness is endearing. I want to know how he does it. How does he turn a normal annoying trait into something so...charming? Whatever his secret is, he does it effortlessly, maybe even unknowingly too.

_He's just a genuinely nervous guy, _I muse. _That's cute. In an awkward sort of way. _

I don't realize how long I've been just staring at him without adding to our conversation until Bartowski misjudges my silence for disinterest. If its possible, his face grows redder and he is about to retreat for his compartment.

I try to stop him from leaving. "Unfortunately, there are no bandits," I joke. "I was just being careless. That's all."

Bartowski stops and I take advantage of his pause. I hold out my hand towards him and introduce myself. "My name's Sarah Walker. I thought you should you the name of the person who almost sent us both to the ER."

I come off a little _too _friendly and it shows. He gives me a puzzled frown, his wariness evident. I don't know why I didn't expect it, but my ego isn't bruised by his uncertainty. His expulsion from Stanford is still fresh on his mind. I doubt he feels like making friends or throwing his trust to a random stranger.

Especially me.

At least he's cautious. I can respect that. We have something in common then. I also recall from his dossier that he has a girlfriend back at Stanford; Jill Roberts. Based solely on what I know from his file and meeting him now, the sullen look permanently etched into his features, I'll make an educated guess and say he's returning to Burbank a single man.

So if he's nursing a broken heart, I doubt romance of any kind is a top priority for him right now.

Bartowski hesitates briefly before shaking my hand. His palm is sweaty but for some reason, I don't feel repulsed by it.

"Charles Bartowski, but everyone calls me Chuck."

"Chuck?" I raise a brow and tease. "I didn't know people called their kids Chuck anymore."

"My parents were sadists."

I burst out laughing. "You're funny, Chuck."

This gets him to finally smile. His ears raise slightly, lips forming into a lopsided shape. He flashes me all of his white teeth and yes, it's as gorgeous as I imagined. He should definitely smile more. In fact, that'll be my sub-mission.

"Well Chuck, it looks like the train is full and I have nowhere to go," I tell him shyly and exaggerate a glance into his compartment. "Mind if I join you? If you do, then it's no problem, really. I'll just go find someplace else..."

He pushes the door ajar. "Mi casa es tu casa."

* * *

><p>The compartment is loaded with various cardboard boxes, an old guitar case and a giant framed poster of some movie called <em>Tron. <em>I enter inside and set my backpack down. Chuck follows behind, and after closing the door, he sits across from me.

He looks happy to have some company. The distrust he showed earlier is gone, and I can relax. I promised myself beforehand that I will refrain from mentioning anything that can relate back to Stanford; the boxes, sweatshirt, or why he's going to LA.

Nope, my lips are sealed. He deserves some privacy which is something I can totally relate to. Besides, I can't afford to drive a wedge between us this early on. I need to develop a sense of trust and companionship first and foremost.

Giving Chuck a polite smile, I glance out of the window and busy myself with the sights. The ocean is deep blue and flat; shoreline deserted, reminding me that it's winter even in California. I stare mindlessly for a bit, watching Chuck from my peripherals. He has the guitar case resting in his lap, the top opened as he lifts the instrument out and stows the empty shell beneath the booth.

He begins playing.

When he plucks the first chord with his pick, the sound resonates throughout the entire cabin. He tentatively strums all the strings at once, and I lean into the cushioned seat, feeling myself unwind.

Chuck improves quickly. His fingers speed up and the movements become a lot more complicated. The song created in result is unlike anything I've heard. I am in no way a music expert, but it must mean something that even I can enjoy a simple melody.

I let him play for a while longer until I try to make conversation. He's humming something under his breath, fingers sliding deftly up and down the length of the guitar, when I inquire:

"So, what's the craziest thing you've done lately?"

Chuck glances from the tabs to me and blinks. I don't think he anticipated me ever speaking to him, much less initiating it. "That depends on your definition of crazy," he answers with a snort.

I shrug. "Surprise me."

"Are you trying to torture me?" He remarks with mock exasperation. I smile eagerly, and he shakes his head. "I really can't say I've done something that constitutes as crazy. If I had, it'd only disappoint you."

"I don't think you can disappoint me." I say, omitting the part that the bar is already set pretty high. It sounds flirtatious Chuck averts his gaze. "Besides, it can't be _that _bad. Right?"

He laughs nervously, "Ok, well there was this one time where my sister—Ellie, had her boyfriend...Captain Awesome, literally force me on this guys' only trip to Big Bear last summer."

"His name is Captain Awesome?" I ask in disbelief.

Chuck grins. "Nah, it's just a nickname that my best friend and I came up with. His name is really Devon, but I'm not lying when I say he's pretty much awesome at everything he's ever attempted. Anyway, he took me whitewater rafting….needless to say, it did _not _go over well."

I lean forward to convey my interest.

He goes on while I listen intently. Our one-sided conversation continues for until the sun disappears behind the horizon, nightfall painting the sky oil black. The train is planned to arrive at Union Station in Los Angeles sometime later this evening.

After Chuck finishes retelling most of his life, we play a few rounds of "I Spy," (hardy har har), ending with a game of "Go Fish." I'll admit that I enjoyed myself. I don't think I've honestly felt this relaxed or had this much fun in years.

We call it a day once Chuck blunders a shuffling trick, the playing cards now lay scattered across the floor of the compartment. By then, I am exhausted. My eyes droop shut and I slump against the headrest on my side of the booth.

Through my half-lidded gaze, I watch as Chuck removes his Stanford sweatshirt and fashions it into a pillow. He leans over, nestling it underneath my head before he returns to his seat where he too, drifts to sleep. I involuntarily snuggle into his sweatshirt and welcome his scent; a unique combination of cologne and mint leaves.

_You're not supposed to get close to the asset. _A disembodied voice interrupts me as I near into a happy state teetering on sleep and wakefulness. _Did you forget the cardinal rule? Spies don't fall in love. _

_I'm not a spy,_ I remind the voice, _and I am not in love. _

That shuts it up. With my mind empty, I am free to sleep. But for some reason, I cannot stop myself from thinking about Chuck. His face. His gentle voice. His kind smile. His visage guides me towards peaceful bliss.

Sometimes rules are meant to be broken.

* * *

><p><strong>An:<strong>Was that any good, an improvement maybe? Yes, no?

Did anyone catch a few Easter eggs in this chapter? There are two—Sarah's hair color (mimicking Yvonne Strahovski's change to brunette), "So, what's the craziest thing you've done lately?" (Quote from the movie, _The Girl Next Door_).


	3. Chapter Two

**An:**I apologize for the long wait. I had a…bad week. My parents went on vacation to Europe, leaving my brother and I to take care of the house and our dogs. First, I am taking this Chemistry class at my university and I'm doing poorly at it. So I had to quit my job at Subway to compensate. Finally, we unexpectedly had to euthanize our eldest dog because he had suffered from a stroke.

So, I dedicate this chapter to my furry friend whom I miss dearly.

Rest in peace, Tahoe. 11/14/99 to 6/18/11

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

****February 15th-16th, 2003

* * *

><p><em>I am walking the streets of Paris again, but this time there is an eeriness that seems to cloud the entire city. The sky overhead is black as ink, a stark contrast to the flurries of snow which hover above the ground. They swirl around me like a lovely dance, coating the cobblestone path with thin layers of frost. It is cold enough to see my shallow breaths puff into the wintry air. <em>

_It's all so lovely, yet there's this dread that creeps into my heart and I can't enjoy the beauty. I feel a sense of foreboding. There is no overlooking the familiarity, this has to be a dream. A reoccurring dream._

_Unable to wake myself up, I have no choice but to let it run its course._

_There is no one around but myself. The wind howls and I draw my jacket tighter to keep my body warm. The temperature continues to drop to frightening lows, and it leaves me numb and raw. _

_I come to the end of a darkened street. Turning a corner I get an unobstructed view of the Seine River. The bridge arches majestically over the canal and I listen to the steady trickle of water. _

_Cautiously I step forward until I feel something cool press against my spine. My hand reaches for the object, fingers clenching the smooth grip to then prod the trigger. The gun elicits strong feelings of disgust and fear to rise inside me like bile. _

_I know exactly why I'm here and for what reason. _

_Can you have _déjà vu _in a dream?_

_Apparently so._

_I warily scan the Parisian landscape. My eyes catch a glimpse of a lone figure that stands on the opposite end of the bridge. I cant see very far once the fog rolls in. It's thick, shrouding much of the city in its ghostly atmosphere. _

_I guess this is where I'm introduced to the twist. I expect for the raven-haired woman to show herself. Her apparition has invaded my subconscious ever since I butchered my Red Test. She's purposefully trying to provoke me into committing the act I refused in real life._

_Even in my dreams I cannot go through with it. My decision to spare her life leaves me awake for the rest of the night, usually covered in sweat and sobbing. _

_I hold my breath and push onward. _

_As I near, everything becomes clear. The rough outline of the figure is a tall, imposing shadow. My blood turns to ice when I realize that this is not my mark at all. _

_It's Chuck._

_His bright eyes shine like beacons. They pierce through the thick haze, guiding me towards him. My feet forcefully drag the rest of me across the misty, haunted plain. I feel like I should be panicking at this sudden loss of bodily control. But unconsciously, I know that any kind of resistance is futile. _

_However, I am still capable of speech and I hear myself beg for Chuck to run away. My voice is a feeble, inaudible whisper. It's drowned by the rush of the Seine and the roar of the wind._

_I close the distance that separates me from Chuck. It's easy to identify the obvious disdain weighing in his features. His accusatory look wreaks me with guilt as though I had done something unforgivable. _

_What could I have possibly done to make him loath me?_

_While the rest of me is paralyzed, I feel my arm move on its own accord. It draws the gun from its place tucked in my waistband. Gripped tightly, I level it at Chuck. The barrel is aimed directly for his forehead, but I have no intent on shooting. _

_Chuck doesn't blink. He is stoic, welcoming death unflinchingly. _

_I grit my teeth. "Chuck, what are you doing?" _

_His silence gives away the answer. _

"_Don't make me do this!" I shout. The air burns my lungs and it feels like I'm being ripped apart from the inside out. "Please, just run!"_

_Breathless, I tremble when Chuck remains motionless. The gun's chamber draws back, ushering a distinct click that resonates throughout the vastness of the empty city. _

"_You brought this upon yourself. Sarah, you did this to me," his voice echoes and I pull the trigger before Chuck can say anything else. _

_The gun discharges with a burst of light and a terrible rushing sound. When the smoke dissipates, I see Chuck lying sprawled on the snowy pavement, several feet away from where he initially stood. There is a growing pool of blood forming beside his head. _

_I drop the gun and rush to where he collapsed. Looming over his body, I watch as blood blossoms from a small dot marked between his eyes; now hollow, shocked zeros. _

_They stare right through me._

_Betrayal forever sunken into his muddy depths... _

I bolt up with Chuck's name on my lips.

The nightmare still plays as I come to; those disturbing images repeating on an endless cycle. There are flashes of Paris, Chuck, and the lasting memory of blood seeping into the snow.

I fight as if I'm drowning. I can barely tread water before becoming totally submerged by the darkness. Only when I hear a voice calling for me, do I find the strength to resurface.

It's faint and distorted, but slowly it grows louder, more pronounced. Perhaps sounding little groggy? Nevertheless, it manages to break the spell I've been under and I can breathe again.

"Sarah?"

I watch with bleary eyes as Chuck is suddenly roused from his sleep. He nearly tumbles off his seat, recovering into a state of alarm before he launches himself across the compartment. He scoops me up into his arms, a hand cradling the back of my head so that my face is buried into his chest. I soak his shirt with my tears but he doesn't seem to care.

He strokes my hair, whispering softly. "Hey, hey, everything's going to be ok. Just keep taking deep breaths, Sarah. You'll feel better, I promise."

I nod, following his instructions. I inhale a deeply. Then I exhale. I repeat this several times and I do eventually calm down. My head clears and I wonder what I am doing, wrapped in Chuck's arms.

I'm not used to hugs. My dad was never really emotionally available, and our relationship was more akin to partners in crime rather than father and daughter. I normally received a pat on the head or some ice cream if I ever was upset. The last time I had a real hug was courtesy of my own mother.

Now that I have time to adjust to my surroundings, I start to feel restless and a bit uncomfortable. Chuck's closeness has me tense and my initial reaction is to reject and run. I can break away from him with ease, but for some reason unknown to myself, I permit him to carry on.

The nightmare begins to fade as they all tend to do, and the trauma accompanying it dulls as well. The relief is instantaneous; lulling me into a sense of security. I lean into Chuck's embrace, listening to his heart beating as frantically as my own.

"I don't want to sound like I'm trying to squeeze in on your personal life, but whatever it is that frightened you, its gone now," murmurs Chuck. "It wasn't real, Sarah. It was just a nightmare. A bad dream. It can't hurt you."

Every night I wake up from that same nightmare, I constantly remind myself of this fact. I haven't been able to convince my brain yet, but having someone else 's opinion may do the trick. In fact, Chuck's words are already starting to sink in.

He goes on. "I hope that you don't think that this is some perverted attempt to take advantage of you. Because I swear I'm not that kind of guy—"

I am too tired to deal with his neurotic ramblings. So rather than telling him that I don't feel taken advantage of, I simply laugh instead. Oh, I wish I can see his reaction. I bet he thinks I'm cracking up.

Chuck freezes, as if confused, then his arms tightens around me. Almost suffocating notwithstanding, having him pressed against me does feel sort of pleasant. Is it normal for two complete strangers to enjoy this kind of intimacy?

The compartment settles into a welcomed silence. There's the occasional intermittent noises that disrupts the peace; like the subtle shaking of the train, or the passengers that roam around the other carts. But I hardly notice, or care.

I feel Chuck rest his chin on top of my head. His gentle hands hold me as if I might be at risk of spontaneously shattering. He treats me like I'm fragile, weak. Shouldn't that annoy me? I'm not the victim. I am not the damsel in distress, always in need of a man to save her. Despite my internal protests, I find myself enjoying this, not wanting to be anywhere else in the entire world.

My eyes widen: I've been compromised. How in less than a day's time has Chuck manged to succeed in what no one could in twenty-two years?

_Doesn't he understand the effect he has on me? _I think wildly.

It's infuriating that I know the answer to my own rhetorical question. Chuck is unlike any spy (nay, person) I've ever met. What you see is what you get. He has no ulterior motive. He's not conspiring against me. He won't even hurt a fly. What can Chuck be hiding if anything at all?

I lift my eyes to him. _What's your secret? _

His face softens as if he heard my thoughts and offers me a lopsided grin that augers well for everything I assumed about him: undeniably selfless and compassionate.

That voice in my head returns before I can blush. _Remember once you know all the cons you can never be a sucker. _It reminds me shrewdly, _Love is just another con, the worst of them all. You said you weren't in love. So do not dare fall for the con! Don't fall for him._

I shouldn't ignore my conscience since it has served me well in the past. But when you find yourself caught between a rock and a hard place, or in this case, my head and my heart, sometimes when push comes to shove, you have to go with the latter.

I can't keep relying on the lines fed throughout my childhood, or the protocols and orders given by the CIA. I am no longer the daughter of a conartist or a spy. I am my own person, a free woman.

Sort of.

_I'm as free as a wanted fugitive can be. _I think sardonically. _It may not be the textbook definition of freedom, but I'll take it for what it is. _

What I have is the chance to live the life I want with who I want.

So if love is a con, I suppose I am the biggest sucker of them all.

* * *

><p>"Thanks for the pillow," I tell Chuck with an appreciative smile.<p>

A few minutes have passed since my meltdown and I feel almost back to normal. Chuck decides to not bring up my nightmare and to be honest, I wasn't expecting him to let it go so easily. Wouldn't he be the least bit curious?

Obviously not. He respectfully keeps his distance, and looks like he's glad that I am no longer bawling. It's refreshing to find someone who doesn't want to grill you for information. And they say chivalry is dead.

With his Stanford sweatshirt bundled in my grasp, I try and return it. Chuck studies it like its contaminated and I frown, puzzled. "Don't you want it back?"

He shakes his head. "I really don't have much use for it anymore."

I know that I made a promise that in no way, shape or form would I bring up Stanford or his expulsion, but Chuck is making it impossible to restrain myself. He's practically throwing it out there like bait. Either he wants me to bite, or he has serious self-esteem issues.

I realize that this also makes me a total hypocrite.

"Why not?" I ask, tilting my head innocently. "Did I get my cooties all over it or something? Because I swear, I'm clean."

The corners of his mouth twitch. "No, it's not you. It's me. Or fuck...I don't even know anymore." He sighs exasperatedly. "Have you ever thought that the whole world is pitted against you? Like, you'll catch a few breaks here and there, but in the end, it doesn't matter. Life will always turn to shit."

There's a strong bitterness in his voice and it catches me off guard. My eyes fall down to where I absently play with his sweatshirt. I mutter, "I understand…about the world pitted against you thing. I'm terrible at giving advice, but just always know that you're not the only one with baggage. Some people have it worse off."

My admittance has Chuck leaning back into the seat, closing his eyes tightly like he wants to wish away everything he had said.

I didn't mean to make him feel guilty. I was only stating the truth, trying to put things into perspective. I guess all it accomplished was to rub the salt deeper into his wounds.

I bite my lip, turning my head as I curse myself for being so insensitive. Meanwhile Chuck remains quiet and brooding. I wonder if he's going to sit there and ignore me for the rest of the train ride. That'd be awkward for the both of us. Especially since we're sharing this cramped space together.

Our shoulders touching every so often; I can feel his warm breath tickle my ears when he speaks sometimes.

That's how close we are.

"I was expelled from Stanford," he admits later on.

I almost don't hear him. "What?"

He looks at me, sounding pained. "I was expelled for cheating on an exam. That's why I don't want to wear that stupid sweatshirt, or why I'm on a train surrounded by all these boxes. I'm going back home to LA."

_You never cheated. _I want to tell him, but I nod like this comes as surprising news. _Someone framed you and I think your father was involved. He obviously knows something that we don't and wants you protected. He wanted me to find you, so here I am. You'll never get hurt again._

I play along. "I have a feeling that's not the whole story."

Chuck replies dryly. "Nobody cares about who is innocent as long as they can turn it into a big spectacle."

I raise a brow. "Were you pre-law?" His dossier reported him as Electrical Engineering, but I have to stimulate the conversation somehow.

"No, Electrical Engineering," he explains. _Duh. _"But I had a friend who was getting into law…he told me that one time. Wish he could've represented me for the hearing, but the student government was adamant about ignoring any rights that I have as a US citizen, neglecting the 6th amendment."

He's rambling again but I have no intention of stopping him this time.

I feel bad for putting him in this position. I can tell that he wants to vent, but it's hurting him as well. So I try to change the subject. "I was thinking about going into law. Not sure if I could've helped your cause much, but it probably would've been a lot better than what you got."

"You were going to be a lawyer?" There is genuine surprise in his tone. I can see how that'd make sense. With my tight clothes and dark makeup, I would not be someone's first choice as a law student. Or even a college graduate for that matter.

"I went to Harvard and graduated last year," I mention casually. "Before applying for Law School, I was going to intern over the summer for a Congressman in DC." That's a blatant lie. If I'd substitute interning with training, and a Congressman with the CIA, then it would be somewhat accurate. I did attend Harvard though. Do I get points for honesty? "But needless to say, I couldn't handle the pressure. Law wasn't what I thought it'd be."

"Didn't have the stomach for it?" Chuck grins teasingly.

He has no idea. "Nope, which is why I decided to take a year off and travel around the United States, maybe find myself and all that sentimental bullshit you know?"

Chuck is definitely impressed. I can see the spark, like a hint of inspiration return in his eyes. His face lights up. "I wish I could do something like that."

"Well, if you decide that you're not ready to go home...you're more than welcomed to join me."

He bites his lip, actually considering my offer. Then he glances around the compartment, seeing his own 'baggage' and sighs. "My sister would freak out if I don't come home. She practically raised me growing up, so I doubt she'd be willing to let me go on a cross country trip."

"I understand," I assure him, smiling for his benefit. When he returns to Burbank, I'll just find another way to keep tabs of him. It will be safer to have us apart. That way no one can capture us at the same time, or my feelings won't end up compromising our lives. Either way, it's no good.

Suddenly, the train comes to a halt. A female voice announces that we've arrived to Union Station in Los Angeles. I glance out the window and see a city filled with bright lights. Chuck isn't remotely fascinated with the scenery since this must only bring up depressing thoughts. But I haven't been to Southern California—or to San Diego since I was Jenny Burton. I always enjoy being here.

Chuck is already organizing his belongings, stacking box upon box. Still holding his sweatshirt in my lap, I stand up. "Do you need me to help?"

"Yeah, if you don't mind…"

"No, not at all."

The next half hour consists of Chuck and me lugging his stuff out of the compartment and to the front of the train where we exit outside. I have several boxes as well as his cherished _Tron_ poster; and then set them down at the crowded platform.

When Chuck has all of his belongings out of the train, I wait for our inevitable departure. I can see his sister—Ellie, bustling through the crowd of people. She is coming towards us with who I can only assume is Captain Awesome, in tow.

Ellie no doubt shares the Bartowski family resemblance: soft brown eyes and thick, wavy hair. Her demeanor conveys all the motherly compassion I dreamt of having in a sibling. Or in a parent for that matter. Chuck is a lucky guy.

"So this is it, huh?" Chuck says, snapping me from my thoughts. I turn to him with my complete undivided attention. He is beaming, but there's a notable hint of sadness mix in with the happiness.

"I suppose it is," I answer. "Are you sure that you don't—?"

"I...I can't, Sarah."

I roll my eyes, "I was going to ask if you still didn't want your sweatshirt?"

His face is bright red. "You—you can have it."

Remembering that I haven't given Chuck his father's sunglasses yet, I reach into my pocket and pull them out. "If you're going to give me a parting gift, then it'd only be fair if I gave you something in return." I hand them to him. "Here."

He takes them. "Um…thank you?"

"They're special sunglasses," I explain playfully. "I bought them a few months ago in Italy after I quit my internship. Decided that they might be better for someone who lives in the sun. Don't worry, they're unisex."

Chuck hangs them from his shirt, his expression downright goofy. His sudden excitement has my heart fluttering. Before he goes, he sneaks in a giant bear hug. For such a lanky guy, he is much stronger than he looks.

"Thank you for everything," he says earnestly, "for listening to me ramble like an idiot and to just spend the better part of your Monday with me."

"It's not like I had a choice," I joke. "But the feeling is mutual."

"I hope you find what you're looking for, Sarah."

_I already found it._

I nod, and without another word we part ways.

My mind is reeling, knowing that I will be a lot closer to Chuck then he thinks. I give one last look of longing: his sister hugs her little brother to the point where he's almost suffocating and the Captain slaps him on the back. I feel my eyes moisten, wishing for what he has more than anything in this world.

* * *

><p>The train will make its next stop in Anaheim. I decide that this is the ideal place to get off. It's not too far from Los Angeles so it'll be easy to rent a car and backtrack to Burbank, then to Echo Park where Chuck—the asset, lives. Once I'm there, I can keep an eye on him from afar.<p>

There's a moment where I briefly contemplate whether it'd be smart for us to interact directly again, maybe develop this friendship into something more. However, this assignment is supposed to be temporary; our relationship will be only a cover. At least on my end.

There's no way I can protect and be romantically involved with him while maintaining a level head as well. Plus, I can't bear the thought of enduring such a cold lie. The last thing I want to do is start deceiving again, especially when it concerns Chuck.

I sigh aloud.

Midnight is drawing close, so the train should be pushing off any minute. There are hardly any passengers left on board save for me and several others. The silence is peaceful and gives me time to ponder. Most of my thoughts revolve around the execution of my plan; Orion's sunglasses (what were they for again?); and of course, Chuck.

As I enjoy a glass of water and complementary crackers, I feel the train gradually start to move again. It rolls out of the station and flies down the Pacific coast. I watch the darkness race by for a little while longer and then my eyes droop closed when fatigue gets the better of me.

But when I hear the sound of footsteps followed by the compartment door sliding ajar, I sober up instantly

I sit erect, my hand unconsciously reaching for my trusty knives. I grasp thin air and then remember that I was going to buy new ones after I returned to the States. So, I am unarmed and positive that this intruder is CIA or a deadly assassin…

"Hey, uh, is this seat taken?"

To my pleasant and complete surprise, Chuck is standing right before me with nothing but a guitar case slung over his shoulder, a pair of sunglasses also resting on his forehead. His cheeks are flushed. He's panting, clearly out of breath. Did he just chase down the train? He gives me a sheepish grin and then waves.

"Chuck, what are you doing here?"

He shrugs and takes a seat across from me. "I wanted to _find _myself too."

"I don't think you need to—"

"Like you said Sarah," He interrupts me. "I'm not the only one with baggage. I think you need my help as much as I need yours. And to do that, I've decided to become your personal baggage handler."

"Didn't I tell you that I give terrible advice?"

"Yeah, and I think that remains to be seen. Besides, I know you missed me already."

"You seem quite sure of yourself. What makes you think that I miss you in the slightest?"

Chuck removes the glasses from his head, and winks at me. "I have a sparkling personality, one that is simply too adorable to resist." With an irresistible eyebrow dance, he then slips the sunglasses to his face.

"Don't push your luck, Bartowski." I snort.

I expect a witty retort of some kind but am left with uncomfortable silence.

"Chuck?" I ask tentatively. There is no response. He is no longer smiling, his face wiped totally blank. I hear a clicking noise and then a beep. It comes from the sunglasses and I quickly leap to my feet and rush over to Chuck.

"Chuck, talk to me!"

I inspect him. The frames of the glasses are luminescent; thousands of images flood through the lenses. I see Chuck's eyes beyond the thin veil. They are glazed over, but tracking the pictures with incredible speed. He looks like he's suffering from some kind of seizure. I don't know what to do, and so I have no choice but wait for it to end_._

_If _it ends.

What feels like an eternity passes. Then the sunglasses go black, smoke emits from a chip located on the side, and it shuts down. The glasses slip askew on Chuck's face. His eyes are closed like he's fast asleep.

"Chuck…?"

The worry in my voice is an understatement.

He slumps over onto the seat with a resounding thud. This would be pretty comical if I wasn't so damn terrified. There is nothing humorous about this.

My brain screams: _Oh no, oh no, oh no….!_

I poke him with a finger. He is unconscious but alive. That's a relief.

I pick the glasses off the ground and examine then with confused disgust. Why the hell did Orion give these to me? Did he know that his son was going to become catatonic if he wore them?

So many thoughts are spinning in my mind, that I feel a little overwhelmed. For probably the first time ever, I am seriously freaking out here.

_What have I done?_

* * *

><p><strong>An: <strong>Sorry for the dark beginning, but hey, I'm in a dark place so that needed to happen. I hope for any Supernatural fan's sake, that they found a small Easter egg in this chapter.

I don't have much more to say, except to review in honor of my dead dog or else you're worse than Hitler.

And I take issue with that.

:D


	4. Chapter Three

**An:**Like always, I appreciate the reviews. Also, the condolences for my dog that recently passed. You guys are the best. So as a thank you, here's chapter three. Not as long as the chapter proceeding it, but it was originally supposed to be part of chapter two. I hope I am starting to flesh out Chuck and Sarah more, adding flavor her Miss Walker's narration.

Enjoy!

R&R

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><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

February 16th, 2003

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><p>If it's even possible, my life has just gotten more complicated.<p>

It takes me awhile to wrap my head around what happened. Usually I am pretty dependable when it comes to keeping a level head. I've learned to deal with stressful situations early on thanks to conning with my dad.

But this is so unexpected, totally out of left field. It's frustrating to me that I cannot find a way to compartmentalize like I used to. I'm unable to act in a calm, dignified manner. Agent Walker is gone and all that remains is a girl who is honestly terrified of the unknown.

I absolutely _hate _surprises.

My first impulse is to hurl the sunglasses out of the train's window. They're held tightly in my grasp. I unconsciously squeeze them, the bridge welding both lenses together almost snaps in half.

Somehow I succeed in restraining myself. I slam Orion's _gift_ onto the countertop instead. I feel hurt and confused. Those feelings eventually bleed into anger. My nostrils flare and I want to storm out of the compartment, ranting and raving. But then my gaze settles onto Chuck.

My eyes soften, anger fleeting.

Right now Chuck is my top priority. As upset as I am, I can't just leave him here not knowing what is wrong with him. God forbid if his condition worsens. The best thing I can do for Chuck is stay and wait for him to wake up.

There hasn't been any sign of movement or conscious activity since he first put on those sunglasses. His features have slackened with both eyes fastened shut, his mouth hanging open slightly. Bits of drool accumulate at the corners of his lips. He is definitely out cold.

Once he begins to snore rather nosily, I have the sudden urge to shake my head and laugh. He is going to be ok.

I carefully lift Chuck upright and prop him to where he leans against the window pane. His cheek presses awkwardly into the glass, fogging it with his shallow breathing. I want to make him feel semi-comfortable, so I remove the guitar case still strung over his shoulder and place it beneath his seat. I use my Stanford sweatshirt to cushion his head.

"There," I say aloud. There is a hint of satisfaction in my voice. _Now all I can do is wait…_

I pay close attention to Chuck while I watch him sleep. The steady rise and fall of his chest convinces me that he's not going to drop dead anytime soon. With my concerns at bay, I sit down and begin to deliberate what the next course of action will be.

My options are limited. Orion apparently didn't find it pertinent to give me much information about what his master-plan is. A little heads-up would've been nice. Especially concerning those sunglasses and why they have the power to render someone catatonic.

But no, He decides to be as vague as possible. Protect Chuck. That's what I am trying to do. I'm dumbfounded by how a former CIA scientist can think that using a subliminal device on his own son is a way to protect him. His son, who is not only an innocent civilian, but is also completely oblivious to the spy world.

I wonder if Orion intended to harm Chuck from the get-go. It could've been part of the plan all along. Maybe Chuck knows something that could get him into serious trouble? If so, then Orion would have probable cause to do whatever is necessary to secure the CIA doesn't acquire those secrets.

I have a bad feeling about this. Nothing makes sense. It's almost like I've been sucked into another dream. This time I'm Alice and this bizarre world is Wonderland. The longer I chase the white rabbit, the further I find myself falling deeper into the bottomless hole.

What the _hell _was I thinking when I accepted this offer?

I was too blinded by the idea of freedom that I never stopped long enough to question the authenticity of the mission. All I could think of was getting revenge on the CIA for screwing up my life, then blackmailing them into letting me go without fear of being hunted.

Orion implied that this was feasible. He didn't explain _how. _I am at a total loss with no real direction. My arsenal includes a pair of broken sunglasses and a used napkin with 1 or 11 scribbled onto it. And I wonder why I don't find any use in trusting people.

They only let you down in the end.

Chuck's been my only exception. Even though he's damaged, he tries to reciprocate my feelings of trust as well. If we are determined remain loyal, how should I approach him once he awakens? I can be honest, or I can omit a few parts; some of which I cannot even begin to explain myself.

Conflicted doesn't come close to explaining how I feel. I gnaw on my cheek until I taste blood from flaps of torn flesh. What to do, what to do...

Moonlight filters through the window. It bathes the compartment with its pale light, revealing Chuck's look of contentment.

At least he isn't suffering. When he first slipped into convulsions I was nearly hysterical. I can still feel the residual shock wrecking my body; nerves on fire, adrenaline lifting me into a state of high awareness.

I've been awake for two days and counting. I doubt I'll be allowed to rest, not with Chuck always needing my constant protection. It's not as if I can afford to sleep anyways. Like my father told me once: "You can sleep when you're dead, darlin'."

Out of the blue, the intercom crackles to life. A tired, female voice reminds us that we're close to the city of Anaheim. About ten minutes out. This will be the last stop of the night and all passengers must evacuate. She wishes us all a goodnight and the compartment returns to silence.

I notice Chuck stirring after the announcement finishes. His body twitches, lips smacking together and brows furrow when he's roused half-awake.

Eyes flutter open and peer from their hooded gaze to scan the area. He pauses when he finds me staring at him like he had woken from a twenty-year coma.

He mumbles, "What happened?"

There are several variations of how I can answer this: tell him the truth, the omission, or the bald-faced lie.

"You passed out," I say unwaveringly.

I feel a pang of guilt when Chuck nods. I grew up deceiving people yet lying to him is agonizing. I remind myself that I am doing this to protect him. Once I figure everything out, I'll tell Chuck the truth. He deserves to know, but not just yet.

"Makes sense," he yawns. He sits up and runs a hand through his tousled curls. "Ugh, I'm so out of shape. Maybe running after the train wasn't the greatest idea after all."

"You ran after the train?" I ask, surprised.

Chuck shrugs. "Stupid and impulsive, right? But like I said before, I want to join you on this soul searching trip of yours."

"You'll regret it."

"I hope you are joking," he remarks dryly. "There's no way I'm turning back now. I probably made the most important decision of my entire life. I gave up everything—which wasn't really much to begin with but still, I have the clothes on my back, my wallet, my guitar and a cell phone. And this is entirely your fault."

I frown. "_My _fault? What did I do?"

He gives me a teasing grin. "You ran into me, thus triggering a butterfly effect. It was inevitable really. So don't feel bad about dragging me along. This is going to be fun."

Fun. I stare at him like he's crazy. Well, that is one word to describe our predicament. I'm amazed by how fast Chuck's mood has changed since we first met. He used to be this solemn soft-spoken boy. Now it's like he's reverted back into the typical college student. Twenty-one, ready for an adventure.

If only he knew what sort of adventure awaits us.

I arch an eyebrow, asking. "So you're saying this is fate?"

"I believe so," Chuck replies honestly. "I mean, this can't just be a coincidence, right? Do you know what I'd be doing if I hadn't met you, Sarah?" I shake my head and he goes on to explain, "I would be living at my sister and her boyfriend's apartment, wallowing in misery because of something I could not control. Probably getting a dead-end job and never going anywhere in life because I'd be too afraid to do anything to change the status quo."

He leans across the counter which divides us. His eyes bore into mine; there isn't the slightest trace of weariness in them. Chuck is wide awake, alive. "But I _can _control what happens here. It's all thanks to you, Sarah. I know we barely know each other, and truthfully I'm horrible at talking to strangers…especially women, but you have this way of making me see things differently. It's probably because I've never met somebody like you before, and likely wouldn't have if I left this train. At the station, I was thinking about that question you asked me: what's the craziest thing you've done lately? I kept drawing a blank. I _need _to fill that blank. Sarah, us meeting was fate. There's no other explanation for it. You're going to help me find myself and I'll do my best to help with whatever you're looking for."

To put it lightly, I am stunned. I try to speak, but my mouth forgets how to work. I avert my gaze in shame.

He just told me everything that was on his mind and I can't give him the sanctification of one true fact about who I am, or how our meeting wasn't exactly a coincidence.

There is no way I can look at him straight in the eye and crush his dreams. They fill me with a sliver of hope that this might be fate. That Chuck and I were supposed to meet despite him being the son of a wanted CIA scientist and me being a rogue spy.

"So you won't be getting rid of me that easily, partner," I hear Chuck exclaim cheerfully and he's standing, guitar case in his hand. The train comes to a stop without me realizing it. "So let's go! Where are we anyway?"

I grab my backpack and rise to full height. "Anaheim," I reply absently. "We should find a motel to spend the rest of the night at…"

Chuck nods.

We exit the compartment and a strange feeling overcomes me. This is it. Chuck and I are now on our own. With nowhere to go, the most important thing is that we survive. Chuck _must _survive.

I drill this notion until its ingrained into my brain. We're suddenly outside of the station's platform. Winter winds blow and I shiver. Beside me, Chuck puts his sweatshirt over my bare shoulders. I smile. The gesture itself is enough to thaw my freezing heart.

"Where do you want to go first?" Chuck says as we leave the station. "Disneyland is close, so is Knott's Berry Farm. I don't have much cash on me, but I think it can be enough to spend a day at one of those parks. It's lady's choice of course."

I've been to neither, and while I'd love to enjoy a fun-filled day with Chuck, we can't afford to remain in one place for too long.

"How about after we make our trip back to LA, we can stop at Disneyland?" I offer helpfully. "Right now, we should think about getting supplies first. Like clothes, food, a car…"

"You're right," Chuck agrees. "And speaking of food, we should probably get something because I am starving." He points to a large neon sign that is located across the street. "Denny's is open 24/7. Does that sound alright to you?"

My Dad and I conned a Denny's once. I pretended to have food poisoning from their _Grand Slam _special and the owner gave us not only a full refund, but a year's worth of breakfast that could be accessed from any one of the restaurants' franchises. Aside from puking my guts out, it was a nice day of father and daughter bonding.

"Yeah, it sounds great," I say with forced enthusiasm. The night has drawn on to a point where I'm not concentrating on the mission. All I want is a hot meal, a roof over my head, and a comfortable bed to sleep in.

I cross the street, but grow confused when Chuck doesn't follow. I stop to glance behind me, finding him standing there motionless, his body swaying like he might pass out again. His eyes are fixed with a faraway, glazed look. _He must be as exhausted as me._ I think nothing of his strange behavior.

"Chuck," I holler. He blinks, shaking his head furiously. "Aren't you coming?"

My invitation sobers him up instantly. He comes rushing towards me. "Sorry, blanked out for a second there."

"It happens to the best of us." He's beside me and I inquire brightly. "So are you ready to get this show on the road, partner?"

The joy conveyed by his smile is unmistakable. I blush madly. Hopefully, he does not notice it from the lack of light. But my heart skips a beat when he responds, "Lead the way."

And we set forth into the darkness, a dim luminescent sign guiding us towards the diner.

* * *

><p><strong>An:<strong>And there you have it! The real adventure begins in the next chapter, and so does their budding romance. Stay tuned for more!


	5. Chapter Four

**An:**So I've decided that more frequent updates are better than waiting for a long 3,000+ chapter. Thus, here's chapter four. Thank you for the reviews as always. I hope everyone in the US enjoys a very nice Independence day, I know I will!

Hopefully, there will be some action coming in the future chapters. But for now, enjoy the progression of Chuck/Sarah. Beware of minimal angst in the beginning as well.

Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Chapter Four<strong>

February 16th, 2003

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><p>Dawn emerges sometime between night and morning where the sky is a cool inky blue, the moon still waning amidst several fading stars. The first rays of sun leak through the heavy curtains and fill the room with light. Its soft glow pulls me toward consciousness. I am determined to resist though, flipping over to avoid the glare while snuggling into the warm blankets that wrap around me. With the sounds of birds chirping outside working in tandem with my own deep breathing, I gradually begin to drift to sleep. But then there's a voice that disrupts this peaceful silence with its hushed, exasperated murmurs.<p>

"I'm fine, I swear." Pause. "El, please don't go all over-protective sister on me now. I'm not a little kid anymore and…yes I'll call you once a day. Pinkie promise. I love you too, bye."

My eyes open and the sense of comfort and bliss vanish. I blink until the spots blocking my vision recede, then soon disappear altogether. I'm not where I should be—sharing a cup of coffee and pancakes with Chuck at the diner. Instead I find myself in a dingy, cramped motel room. The television is on. Fuzzy images flicker across the screen, most likely playing the local news on mute. Then the weary, but relieved face of a young man slides into view. There's an instant where I revert into spy-mode, but the alarm wears off and I relax.

"Chuck."

"Good morning," he greets me cheerfully. "Did you sleep well?"

"How long have I been out for?" I ask him, fully aware that my head aches and there is a weird emptiness in my stomach.

"Maybe five hours, but time gets funny when you pull an all-nighter," Chuck answers. He plops on the corner of the bed and smiles. "But five hours or no, you needed rest desperately. I almost had a panic attack when you collapsed while we were eating."

I push myself upright, looking at Chuck in total shock. A sudden bout of lightheadedness overwhelms me and I feel dizzy, uncoordinated. Chuck quickly reaches for a glass of water resting on the nightstand beside us. He holds it to my lips, coaxing me to drink. I take a few generous sips, my disorientation abating somewhat. Bits and pieces of last night start to resurface.

"What happened?" I ask. "Was it food poisoning? Are you alright? Where are we?"

Chuck is taken aback by my intensiveness. "Sarah…" he begins calmly."You fainted. You were dehydrated and had nothing substantial in your stomach. So don't worry, I was able to save the leftovers in case you were still hungry." He indicates the to-go container that is on a table located on the other side of the room. "Luckily, this motel was only a block down the street so I didn't have to carry you very far…"

"You _carried_me?"

"Is that surprising?" He raises a brow, amused. "I may not be the typical knight in shining armor, but you gotta give a man some credit for trying."

"I do," I say nodding. "Believe me, and I can't thank you enough. God, I feel so embarrassed. That never happens to me. I'm usually very aware about my health…but I guess I just forgot. Chuck, I'll find a way to repay you somehow."

Chuck shrugs. "It's not a big deal, that's what friends are for."

I give him a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. We're friends. I've never had real friends before, and while I am delighted that we're beyond the stage of acquaintances, I realize that I don't want just to be Chuck's friend. I want more than that. But my brain insists that friendship is a good place to be. Hopefully it'll be as far as our relationship will go. However my heart yearns for the closeness that Chuck can provide.

Oh, how I hate internal conflict.

But then I stop thinking about my problems and concentrate on Chuck's perspective. This is a huge step for him. Considering he had lost so much in the last few days—years of camaraderie, a first love, an education and the possibility of a successful future. All of that, the memories, and experiences. Gone.

I commend Chuck on his ability to overcome it, or at least try to. During the long flight over to California, I spent most of my free time familiarizing myself with Chuck and his past. I found that he had countless past cases of abandonment issues since early childhood. His mother left at age nine, then his dad followed by age thirteen. Ellie and Chuck were left to fend off for themselves. It's a wonder that he can still trust others given what he had gone through.

That's what makes us so different. I can't let the past go and move forward. Yet Chuck can find it in his heart to forgive others for their flaws. He's truly is a great guy. He doesn't deserve anything that is happening to him, past or present. Maybe it would be better if I keep my distance. He'll only get burned in the end.

_Which means so will I, _I think sadly.

I tilt my head and now really _look_at Chuck. I note his disheveled appearance: the tousled hair, the bags underneath his eyes, and the stubble that's sprinkled throughout his once clean-shaven face.

"Did you get any sleep?" I ask, discovering that the room is practically empty. There isn't a couch and I doubt that Chuck had the audacity to share the bed with me, especially since I was unconscious.

"Um no," he admits sheepishly. "I've barely been able to sleep since, uh Stanford. I usually just sort of pass out when my body is exhausted enough, but I think I might've developed insomnia or something…"

"What have you been doing all night then?"

"I decided to start planning our trip out." Chuck grabs a piece of folded paper that was in his pocket. He unfolds it, revealing it to be a map of the entire US. "I took this from the front desk. See, what I did was mark a dot for our current location and then connected it with some possible destinations around the country. We're in Anaheim now, so we can head further south to the Mexican border and go east to Arizona. Then, we just keep bouncing around till we get to Washington DC…"

I barely hear what Chuck's saying; he's talking _way_too fast for human comprehension. I suppose that's something I'm going to have to get used to. But when he first mentions Washington DC, I feel my breath hitch. That is not good. If we move in that direction, the CIA will have no trouble apprehending us. It'd be too easy for them. I'd much rather cross into Tijuana, deal with multiple drug cartels than return to the nation's capitol and basically hand ourselves over without a decent fight.

"So what do you think, Sarah?"

Chuck is waiting eagerly for my opinion. I hesitate, completely against the idea of going eastward, but knowing that to contain a volatile situation like this; compromises will have to be made. Hopefully Orion will instruct me on how to elude the CIA, maybe flee the United States and drop off grid again. So far his contributions have been a sum of money that has yet to be withdrawn, and a pair of sunglasses that almost rendered his son catatonic.

It'd be lying if I was filled with confidence right now.

But I will give this mission the benefit of the doubt. I can navigate us across the United States as long as we're safe and hidden from the Agency goons. I won't like it, but at least we'll have a gap between us and Washington DC that spans the length of most of the country itself. There's a lot of ground to cover for Team Bartowski and Team CIA respectively. I only hope that we're the ones who are better prepared.

"Sounds like a great idea," I respond lamely.

Chuck brightens. The joy that emits from him is palpable, blinding. I try and maintain the same level of excitement but my false bravado can't compare. As he leaps off the bed and goes to collect his belongings, I remain put. My mind is suddenly held hostage by an onslaught of jumbled and frightening thoughts. One of which prods my brain like a fire poker.

_How much longer can I go before I cave and tell Chuck the truth?_

There is no straightforward answer and it causes me great distress. All I know for certain is that when this moment inevitably comes to pass, it'll sting. No one escapes betrayal unscathed. And if Chuck doesn't hate me after it's all said and done, then I surely will.

I chew on my lip, a nervous habit I've developed lately. Trying to stay composed; I slide off the mattress and wordlessly brush past Chuck for the bathroom. He asks me a question, but I ignore him. Trailing barefoot across the cold tiles leaves me numb. I close the door behind me and shed my clothes into a pile. When the water comes pouring by the bucketfuls, cascading over me like a hot summer's rain, I allow it to wash me clean of _everything._

Perhaps something as simple as a shower can alleviate my guilty heart.

* * *

><p>"Road trips have endless possibilities…"<p>

I read the pamphlet aloud while Chuck drives the 5 freeway south. We had just left the rental car dealership with a sleek red Ford Mustang convertible.

While it isn't very inconspicuous, its speed will compensate for its faults; making for a flawless getaway if we ever encounter the CIA. It surprisingly took a lot of convincing on my part to get Chuck to acquiesce. My demand for a stylish vehicle, preferably one with decent gas mileage, wasn't very outrageous anyway. But as he handed over his California license and insurance to acquire the vehicle, I saw his grimace of pain and felt the need to repay him for this sacrifice. I finally made use of Orion's wired funds; paying for the entire rental fee. I even allowed Chuck to drive the Mustang first.

He flies past the other cars. The top is down and the brisk wind rushes around us. My hair whips behind me like a golden-brown tornado. As Chuck switches lanes and the speedometer increases to eight-five, the pamphlet slips from my fingers and soars into oncoming traffic. My once despondent mood dissipates into unbridled euphoria. Heart pounding in my ribcage, I feel alive again and apparently so does Chuck. He exits for a shopping center we saw advertised a few miles back; racing into the _Irvine Spectrum_parking lot with a wolfish smile plastered to his face.

"Didn't I say you wouldn't regret getting this car?" I tease once he kills the ignition.

"I apologize for ever doubting you," Chuck says, shifting his gaze to mine and I try hard not to laugh. He blinks confusedly. "What, what's wrong?"

I point, "Your hair."

Embarrassed, he hastily flattens the curls that were sticking on end. "I need a haircut."

I roll my eyes and swat his hand away, ruffling his mussed hairdo. My simple gesture has his entire face turning a disturbingly deep shade of scarlet. "I like it the way it is," I say.

"You'd be the first. Jill—" He sighs. "She's my ex, and uh, she kept trying to get me to cut it. Said it was too shaggy and made me look homeless."

I bristle, but my tone remains neutral. "Well, you won't have to worry about her now, won't you?"

Chuck nods but doesn't reply.

I always feel awkward around anything remotely romantic. I've never been in one that wasn't a mission, so it's difficult to empathize with Chuck. All those years spent traveling with my father and participating in cons, or going on spy missions abroad, forbid me from love in any capacity. There have been no boyfriends, flings, or one-nightstands. It was just the next mark.

Frowning, I mumble. "Look, I'm sorry I said that."

"It's alright, that was just the first time I mentioned her since we broke up."

He appears crestfallen, eyes averted. Is that what heartache looks like? It makes me want to reach out, to do anything that can relieve his pain. Or maybe find his ex and pummel her face to mush. But I resist both urges and hang back in my seat. The bubbling anger continues to rise inside me; for not acting on my impulses, and especially for Jill Roberts who had shattered Chuck's heart into a million pieces.

"I know that you must miss her a lot," I begin to say purely for his benefit. "Breaking up is tough and—"

Thank god Chuck interrupts me because I had no clue what I was saying. He shakes his head. "No, I don't miss _her_. I miss what we had." He levels his gaze to me. "I much rather be here anyway."

My heart skips a beat and a tiny "Oh," is all I can muster.

Chuck throws me a patented lopsided grin, "Now how about we go shopping, huh?"

He leaves the Mustang while I remain in my seat, face burning as I try to rationalize what he meant by those words. It could mean absolutely nothing, but it also could mean _something_. Either way, I know Chuck's standing outside, probably getting a good laugh at my expense right now.

Damn him.

* * *

><p>"Was buying all these clothes really necessary?"<p>

"You tell me. Was going into Dave & Buster's really necessary?"

Chuck looks affronted as we walk back to the parking lot hours later. The sun is beginning its descent over the freeway and into the Pacific Ocean. While I have my hands full of bags from different outlets (ranging from those essential for our road trip, to yes, a few items from Nordstrom) Chuck is carrying a few as well, and also a huge aqua blue stuffed bear he won at the arcade. Though the average girl would be embarrassed to be seen with a nerd like him, I find that I'm actually proud of his achievement. And why wouldn't I be? He scored a perfect on nearly every first-person shooter game. That's pretty impressive.

"Videogames are cathartic," Chuck explains, awkwardly shifting the bear under his arm. "Plus, didn't I say that I was going to get Bedtime Bear for you?"

My lips curve slightly. "You did."

"Exactly, and what did you get besides an entire new wardrobe?"

"For your information, I _did_buy everything that was on our to-do list. I even bought you some jeans and t-shirts while you were immersed with _Dance Dance Revolution_."

"I was on fire," Chuck says defensively. "And you never stop when you're on fire. That's like common sense!"

"Clearly."

Chuck quickly mutters under his breath about how all women are so high-maintenance which has me snickering to myself.

As we continue our friendly banter, we approach the Ferris wheel at the entrance of the mall. It is strewn with a myriad of vibrant colors like pink, red, purple and white. It has slipped my mind that Valentine's Day was only two days ago. So it makes sense for it to still be decorated for the holiday.

The machine rotates slowly while the couples seated inside enjoy the ride. I feel myself come to a slow stop and become mesmerized by the different patterns of the lights, and how they'd twinkle like the stars far above us.

"Have you ever been?"

I crane my neck to find Chuck staring at me. "Been where, on the Ferris wheel?"

"Yeah, so have you?"

Shaking my head, I reply. "No, can't say that I've had the chance."

"Well seeing as we have some time to kill," Chuck goes on to say. "Would you like to join me?"

I feel like this is the sort of conversation I should've had when I was sixteen and in high school, not a fully grown woman. The cute boy I'd have a crush on would charm his way into my heart. He'd take me on a date, win me a prize and then finish the night with a kiss at the top of the Ferris wheel. That was the teenage dream wasn't it?

There is a moment where I pause to think of something poignant to say. But in the end, I face Chuck and am reduced to a shy smile. "I'd like that."

Not long after we're both seated safely, the Ferris wheel climbs up to the very top. Chuck and I can see the majority of southern California stretched out before our very eyes. The cities are aglow, the ocean black as midnight swallows the sun whole, and the hills surrounding the east are on fire. I hug the stuffed bear to my chest while taking in the stunning view.

"This is so beautiful, Chuck!" I exclaim.

But he doesn't answer. From my peripheral vision, I catch him looking at me rather than focusing on the breathtaking scenery. His chocolate eyes glimmer in the twilit sky. It causes me to grip the bear tighter; my fingertips almost puncturing the fabric.

"I thought you'd like it," Chuck replies softly. "Being up here really puts things into perspective."

"I know what you mean."

Everything appears so vast and infinite. It's almost surreal. How the land and sea expands limitlessly in every direction, and here we are. Just the two of us isolated from society. We're so small, so insignificant compared to rest of the world. But I'm not saddened by this. It gives me a sense of hope. Hope that our triviality will keep us out of harm's way from much bigger things. For an instant, I believe that our situation isn't as bad as it seems.

Night falls around us. I lean into Chuck, his chin resting on my head as we stare into the darkness. Our chair begins to move downward to the ground. I have a strong feeling that Chuck was expecting more from our ride other than silent musings. But it's obvious that neither of us is quite ready to make the next step. And that's ok. It's a big leap, one that takes time. Once we face our demons, the pieces will fall into place.

As the Ferris wheel is finally about the reach the bottom, I intertwine my fingers with Chuck's hand. I feel him smile against me, lazily tracing his thumb over my knuckles. We might as well look like a real couple to the average onlooker. I like putting that idea into peoples' heads as well as my own. Someday it might turn out to be true.

But not just yet.

Plenty of words are left unspoken between Chuck and me. As we both return to the parking lot, then settle ourselves in the Mustang, I begin to reflect. We share a bond like any other. He understands me. I want to learn to understand him too. That commonality keeps me connected; it's more than I ever imagined it could possibly be.

And for now, that's enough.

* * *

><p><strong>An:<strong>I hope nobody seriously thought I'd let Chuck and Sarah kiss this early in the story. But that's grade A fluff right there, so no complaining please! The Irvine Spectrum was actually a shopping center that's 30 minutes from my hometown. There's a massive ferris wheel I'd ride frequently, and a Dave & Buster's (basically an arcade/restaurant/bar hybrid) that was the place to be. My brother actually used his tickets one time to buy me the Bedtime Bear Carebear stuffed plushy. Also, the Sarah fainting at the Denny's happened to me once, only that it was at my university and I was outside in the scorching heat. But I didn't eat/drink anything for a day and passed out. My boyfriend caught me and basically was my knight in shining armor like Chuck. The more you know!

**An2: READ!**For an upcoming chapter, I need the readers' opinion. Out of these choices, which song would you like to see in some capacity in this story? Please vote for one of these when you leave a review **OR** give your own recommendation as well. I suggest you either read the lyrics to the songs (if you are unfamiliar with them) or go on YouTube and listen.

1. You are a Tourist—Death Cab for Cutie

2. Around my Head—Cage the Elephant

3. I Want to-Weezer

4. Fool with Dreams—Framing Hanley

5. What are you Looking for—Sick Puppies

6. Tighten Up—The Black Keys


	6. Chapter Five

**An:**Oh boy, that took forever! Sorry about the semi-long update. Life, you know, sometimes gets in the way. I have a few things to say before y'all get started reading the next chapter.

1. As you can probably see, the title has undergone a change from **The Craziest Thing**to **Redeeming Intentions.**I for one like that latter better and has stronger feel on what the whole story is about. So there's that.

2. This chapter is the longest of them all. Word count says its about 6,406. So to all my readers who have a horrible attention span, I'm sorry. Read in small intervals!

3. This is the last filler chapter, and you'll see towards the end, the spy angle is returning and so is Charah.

4. Regarding **Life Imitating Art:**I may get one more chapter out but i'm done. Guys, smut is amazing, but it gets repetitive. Not only that, but I don't really ship Zachonne anymore. I sorta had a reality check. I'm sorry for the inconvenience. Porn is more exciting anyways.

So without further ado, enjoy chapter 5!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five<strong>

February 17th-18th, 2003

* * *

><p>Early the following day, both Chuck and I set off on the road again. We had both came to a unanimous decision that instead of staying overnight at another trashy inn, we'd remain in the car. It was a good idea in theory. While we didn't spend money, we did suffer in the most uncomfortable sleeping situation perhaps ever. Don't even get me started on how cold it was.<p>

It looks to be an even chillier mid-February morning. The sun is slowly ascending into the vast opaque sky, and it stretches over us while we continue to travel the 101 south. Chuck is fast asleep in the passenger's seat which thus appoints me as the designated driver for today. It is barely six o'clock and the highway is entirely desolate. It's kind of eerie to find absolutely no cars clogging up the lanes with traffic.

But as unusual as this is, it'll give us a huge advantage in case we encounter any problems in the along the way. We'll obviously cover some good distance, but also notice the slightest hint of suspicious activity. Like, say if the CIA has been tailing us from behind this entire time.

For now though it seems like we're in the clear. The only issue (which is a rather small one) is that the Mustang's tank is low on fuel. So several miles later and I pull into a gas station.

Sunrise has peaked over the sparkling horizon, its golden rays touching the sleepy beach town. I quietly maneuver out of my seat, not to awaken Chuck by accident and begin filling the car. There hasn't been much peace in my life, but when I come across a moment such as this, I'll treasure it.

As the nozzle clicks, signaling me that the tank is full, I realize that than rather paying with a credit card, now it seems to be prudent to go with cash this time around. Cash, unlike any card, can't be traced. The CIA won't freeze the offshore account that Orion had set up for me to use freely; not if they don't know about its existence. So I quickly bend into the Mustang to retrieve my wallet.

I reach for it nestled between the seats, pausing only when a grumpy voice breaks my concentration. It asks, "Where are we, and what time is it?"

Glancing up, I find Chuck staring at me with curious, half-lidded eyes. I greet him with a warm smile, saying. "We're in San Clemente. It's about forty-five minutes away from San Diego. It's also pretty early, Chuck, so you can get some more sleep if you're still tired. I don't mind. I was going to go pay for gas and get us a few snacks maybe…"

The mere mention of food has Chuck sobering up. He sits erect in his seat; hair untidy as ever, brown curls sticking out in awkward angles. His face brightens and he grins. "Breakfast sounds good. Can I come with?"

I affirm his request with a slight nod. Chuck literally springs out of the Mustang and we jointly make our way in the direction of the rest stop.

* * *

><p>Chuck weaves through the limited aisles of the deserted mini-mart, searching high and low for his desired snacks. I watch him closely from my peripherals. He has coffee in one hand and is gathering as much as he can from the candy section with the other.<p>

I roll my eyes and resume my own hunt. While Chuck is here to satisfy his sweet tooth, I am in the far end of the store, scanning the shelves for a set of knives, a switchblade, or a Swiss army knife. Anything that's sharp really.

Yesterday during our shopping excursion, I had been too sidetracked to think about replacing the knives I've left behind in Italy. It'd be a poor excuse to blame my forgetfulness on Chuck. He was distracting, but I should've been focusing on purchasing the necessities over fashion or other less important items. I think it's imperative to always be prepared for a fight. I'm unarmed and that's not enough if Chuck and I are confronted with the CIA or any other threat. There's only so much you can do with your body alone. So with the exclusion of firearms, I'll have to rely on my greatest asset. My dad did something right when teaching me the many uses of knife-play. My expertise had saved my life on countless occasions. Their use is invaluable.

I end up choosing the most expensive knife in the store. With that, a glazed donut, and my gas receipt in hand, I approach the cash register. The clerk sitting behind the counter appears to be nodding off intermittently. I clear my throat and he jolts awake. He wordlessly scans my items and rings my total price up.

"Will that be all?" He yawns, bored.

"Actually, there will be a few more things." I reply, looking over my shoulder to see Chuck with his arms full of sweets. "Chuck, are you ready to go?"

"Yeah, I just have to—" he adjusts his position to accommodate everything from slipping from his grasp. Almost dropping the coffee, he recovers and shouts. "I'm all good!"

I turn to the clerk who snorts at Chuck's antics. He remarks, "You got some boyfriend there, lady."

"Boyfriend?" I frown. "Um, excuse me but he's not my…"

When Chuck approaches me, I shut my mouth. He dumps his snacks on the counter, my cheeks growing scarlet as he takes a sip of his coffee to only burn his tongue in the process. The clerk shoots me another glance, mumbling something about _those stupid college kids,_ and then gives me an updated total.

I remain polite, paying the correct amount and then Chuck and I exit the store together. Chuck begins eating a bag of Red Vines the moment we get outside. He's munching happily while I am reduced to an uncomfortable silence.

Finally returning to the Mustang, we take our respective seats. I start the engine and our trek continues to San Diego. At this point, I do not focus on the CIA or anything else. What occupies my mind is the clerk's assumption about Chuck and me. This is the first time a stranger had actually commented about us.

Do we honestly look like a real couple?

I muse. _Chuck Bartowski, my boyfriend. _

That seems to be an odd desire for a not-so normal girl. It does have a nice ring to it though.

* * *

><p>I may have misspoke about the lack of traffic.<p>

When we leave the city limits and enter the freeway again, we suddenly hit a snag. Cars are bumper to bumper. All of southern California is wide awake; hopped up on caffeine and driving off to school, or work. I usually am never so easily frustrated but today I seem to have a bad case of road rage.

I have a lot on my mind: plans revolving the CIA, Orion and of course, Chuck. So being cramped in a tiny space isn't really helping with my growing unease. When Chuck begins fiddling with the radio, turning the volume up and down, I almost lose my patience altogether.

"You're being awfully quiet," He observes. "A penny for your thoughts?"

"I assumed there wouldn't be so much traffic this early on in the day," I grouse.

Chuck laughs. "You know what they say, Sarah. When you assume, it makes a…well you know. Anyway, traffic in California sucks royally. You should've seen Comic Con last summer. It was cra-zy."

I sigh aloud, deciding not to offer anything more to the conversation. If I had, it would probably consist of a string of curses. There is at least a positive to this. The freeway is so congested that it would be extremely difficult for anyone to capture us. The CIA could find a bright red Mustang out of the cars, but getting to us is a whole different matter.

So for the next half hour or so, I sit back and try to calm down. I listen to the radio station Chuck settled on; music I've never heard before plays from the speakers. Chuck himself has finished his breakfast and now with a pad of paper in his lap, he begins writing. I cannot read his scribbles and I resign myself to staring at the road ahead. There are multiple billboards that advertise San Diego's attractions. The one that catches my attention right away is the Zoo.

Chuck glances up, noticing it too. "Ah, the zoo. If I was going to venture a guess, I'd say you've never been there either?"

From the short amount of time spent getting to know each other, Chuck has learned (or rather inferred) that I had a tough, deprived upbringing. One where I never went to amusement parks, relished in the joys of music, or played videogames. While he _is_right, I wouldn't say that my childhood was deprived. It was different, that's all. Dad _did_say that no other kid my age had as much fun as I did. There was a ring of truth to that.

I answer, "Sorry to disappoint you Chuck, but I've actually gone with my father once. It went when we lived in San Diego for a couple of years."

I forget to mention that those four years were possibly the worst of my life.

"Sarah, did you just willingly tell me something about your past?" Chuck asks incredulously. "For awhile, I thought you weren't human, maybe created in a lab or something. Possibly by an evil scientist with the intentions of world domination—"

"While that sounds very plausible, I was really just a normal girl with a complicated childhood." The traffic dissipates somewhat and we're moving again. I add, "My mom and dad divorced when I was pretty young, and while they fought over custody, I stayed with my grandparents. It wasn't the best of circumstances, but it wasn't too unbearable. Not until it came down to me to choose which parent I'd live with."

There should be no reason to tell Chuck about my personal life. I have managed to keep them to myself for so long, these little secrets that no one, not even the CIA (save for Director Graham) knows about. It's not as if they'd benefit from knowing anyways. But maybe it's because Chuck doesn't try and pressure me about the truth—the nightmare and my past in general, that I feel comfortable to just talk it out. I want him to trust me. I want him to like me despite the liar I truly am.

"They had you picking sides?" Chuck's question brings me back to the conversation.

"Yes, and in the end I stuck with my Dad."

There's a pause.

"Do you regret your decision?"

I try not to meet his gaze. "Sometimes. We moved around a lot; my father scrapped around for jobs so we never had a permanent home. It wasn't until I graduate high school and went to…Harvard that I felt accepted you know?"

Chuck nods sympathetically. "That's how I felt about Stanford too. I joined a fraternity my sophomore year, mostly because I was forced to by my roommate Bryce. He said I'd meet a lot of people, make life-long friends…which in theory seemed like a great idea, but the execution was a complete failure. I had high hopes that after four years in college, I'd come out with at least a degree and a chance of making something out of myself. Needless to say,_ that_didn't go as planned either."

"I think regardless of having a degree or not, you are making _something_out of yourself, Chuck." I reply with honest sincerity. "Don't let Stanford ruin the rest of your life. Thinking "what ifs" or not letting go of the past will only waste what potential you have. I've known you for a couple of days now and already I can see you're going to do great things."

For once in my life I'm not lying. Chuck is an amazing guy. _And that's the truth_, I mentally add.

He is bewildered by my response, unsure how to make of it. I don't quite understand it either. All I know is that it's heartfelt and I wouldn't take it back for the world.

"That's um, wow." He struggles to find an appropriate response. "Has anyone told you that you'd be a fantastic life coach? That inspirational speech pretty much blew my mind…in a good way of course."

I pretend to be affronted, smacking him playfully on the shoulder. "I was being entirely serious!"

"I know, and thank you. I wish I could come up with something as beautiful and eloquent as that. But sadly all I've got is candy." He reaches below his seat and pulls out the bag of snacks. "Would you like a Red Vine, Sarah Walker?"

"It would be impolite to say no, wouldn't it?"

With a signature lopsided grin, he hands me a licorice stick. I place it between my lips and tear off a large piece, my eyes leaving Chuck (who has returned to his note pad) to follow the highway that stretches far ahead. I chew thoughtfully, wondering how such a simple offering can relieve my frustrations like it were only a bad dream.

* * *

><p>With traffic, we're cooped up in the car for another couple of hours or so. It looks like there's no chance we'll be getting anywhere today. Unless Chuck has rethought his plan to take a trip to Mexico rather than heading east, then I'd make sure to continue driving all night to get there.<p>

The border isn't much further ahead. Maybe another hour or so south. Either we'd cross it and leave the country, or make a u-turn (the best option to throw the CIA off) and head for Arizona.

But today, Chuck has had enough of the road trip scene and I can't agree more. Its noontime; we are deep into San Diego territory, more specifically, the quiet town of Ren Mar. I park the Mustang at a camping ground that's near the beach. With ocean breeze to calm us, we will use the remainder of the day to relax and recuperate.

Chuck saves us a bench while I grab a bag that's full of food and drinks. I take a seat across from Chuck, who has unsurprisingly decided to bring his guitar with him. He's strumming an unfamiliar tune while I prepare sandwiches.

"Have you ever thought about pursuing a career in the music business?" I ask him out of the blue.

He looks up at me. "I've considered it for about a millisecond, and then realized after seeing Weezer performing live up in San Francisco a few years back, it was probably not the best idea."

I don't know who or what Weezer is, but I can only assume it's the name of a band. I nod like I understand, "Well I think you're amazing. The best I ever heard."

"Says the most musically challenged person in the entire world."

"Hey," I say indignantly. "I may not know as many bands and songs as the average person, but I do think I have a pretty good sense for what sounds good and what sounds like shit."

Chuck smiles. He's about to reply but is cut off by a crowd of people stampeding through the camping grounds towards the beach. Once they pass, the two of us trade confused looks.

"What the hell was that about?"

"It looks like that's a college party," Chuck replies softly. "There had to be at least a hundred of them."

"It's February," I say. "The water is freezing."

"It's not so freezing after a few drinks, trust me."

"Alright, you're the expert." I watch the beachgoers begin to set up their domain. There's a bonfire pit, multiple kegs and a stereo system blasting music. Turning my attention back to Chuck, I notice his crestfallen demeanor. It's obvious that he misses Stanford and everything he was forced to leave behind. I ask, "Would you like to go check it out?"

"What, the party?"

"Would you?"

Chuck absently plucks the strings of his guitar, head down in contemplation. A moment later and he sighs, "I guess."

We then walk across the beach to the party. Chuck appears nervous, like the last idea on his mind is to converse with strangers. He sticks close to me and doesn't say a word. There is a group of boys and girls playing catch with a Frisbee. Someone throws it astray; it goes flying in our direction, landing at Chuck's feet.

He treats it as it were something dangerous. I heave a sigh and bend over to pick the Frisbee up myself. One of the boys waves his arms at me, yelling:

"Hey, pass it over here!"

I fling the Frisbee across a long distance and the boy catches it. There are now several pairs of curious eyes set on me. Chuck is one of them, but he is generally impressed. When the boy who caught my pass comes rushing towards us, Chuck mutters. "Seriously, what can't you do?"

I hide a smirk.

The boy introduces himself as Kevin. He's medium height and relatively handsome with blondish hair and a pair of green, good natured eyes. We acquaint ourselves with him and his group of friends. Or rather, _I_am the one to acquaint us. Chuck is uncharacteristically quiet. Not the type of person to be soft spoken, I find this somewhat disconcerting.

"So, what are you guys in the great city of Ren Mar for?" Kevin asks, grinning. "I haven't seen either of you before, so you don't go to UCSD, do you?"

I shake my head. "No, actually we're on a road trip. Chuck's taking a break from his studies at Stanford and I graduated from Harvard last year."

"No shit, Stanford and Harvard alumni?" Kevin exclaims in surprise. "Wow, way to make the rest us look bad!" He laughs jokingly. "How would you two like to join our little get together? I'm sure we have a shitload of beer if you're willing to stick around."

I turn to Chuck for him to make the decision. His eyes noticeably grow larger at the mention of alcohol. I inwardly roll my eyes. _College boys and their drinking,_I think.

"So how 'bout it, Stanford?" Kevin slaps Chuck on the back. "You and your girlfriend can have a _great _time tonight."

Chuck's cheeks flush in embarrassment. Really now. What is with people constantly insinuating that we're a couple? It was nice at first, but now it's a bit annoying. But Chuck shakes off his nerves and responds, "If it's alright with Sarah, we'll stay for awhile."

I say, "Its fine by me."

Kevin beams. "Great! Now let's get you two hooked up with some drinks."

As if by magic, we both have beers in our hands.

Chuck is ecstatic. I am less enthused.

I have the feeling that this is going to be a very long night.

* * *

><p>I lose count on how many drinks we've had each.<p>

I know that I am not drunk. Chuck is tipsy, but everyone else is totally plastered. The sun has eclipsed the horizon with a bright gold shimmer.

People are dancing, engaging in various activities, with some even stripping down to their underwear to swim into the freezing cold water. There is a faint smell of marijuana hanging in the air. I am sober enough to know how out of place I feel.

Spies don't party.

Chuck hasn't left my side since we began mingling with the other partygoers. While Kevin thinks we're dating, it still doesn't stop him from flirting with me. It's irritating for one, but it also has Chuck acting strange. He's a bit territorial even though we are supposed to be friends. He won't allow any guy to get within a few feet of me before racing off to my rescue. He plays the part of over protective boyfriend really well. I personally find it endearing. I also can't help to think he's doing it just to keep me all to himself.

I do not mind this at all.

"I see your boyfriend carrying that guitar case around like it's his prized possession or something," Kevin says with a laugh. "Is there really an instrument in there, or is it like one of those mobster movies and it has an AK-47 inside?"

I sip at my beer, responding. "No AK-47s, but there is a guitar."

"Does he play or is it some kind of a fashion statement?"

"Oh he plays," I say. "He's actually pretty good."

Kevin raises a brow. "Really?"

"Yep, but he's pretty shy so don't think you can just ask him to—"

And before I finish my sentence, Kevin has gone searching for Chuck. I swallow thickly and follow suit.

Oops.

"C'mon, Stanford! Play us something!" Shouts Kevin seconds later once he has Chuck cornered.

Almost immediately, everyone is pressuring him to perform. I trade looks with Chuck, who shoots me a withering glance. He's not happy about me throwing him under the bus. I shrug helplessly; taking sip from my cup to contain the guilty look on my face.

He frowns, saying. "It's not funny."

I say weakly, "It's a little funny."

Before Chuck can retort, Kevin grabs either of his shoulders and guides him through the crowd of beachgoers. Chuck soon finds himself standing in front of the bonfire pit. The flames are high, licking from behind like an extravagant backdrop. He has become the center of attention. Chuck shifts uneasily on the balls of his feet before proceeding to open the guitar case, holding the instrument with shaky hands. While he tunes the strings, his eyes float away the sea of strangers and focus themselves on me. I give him a reassuring smile and the thumbs-up. He swallows nervously.

"Can I at least have something to drink?" He asks no one in particular. Suddenly, two shot glasses filled with the cheapest, foulest smelling vodka passes down a line of people only to end in Chuck's possession. He quickly gulps them both and grimaces at the disgusting taste. His demeanor gradually relaxes; cheeks tinged pink, his eyes glassy. He sways to his growing inebriations, like the palm trees scattered along the shoreline.

With a pick between his thumb and forefinger, he strums the guitar once, then repeats his ritual several more times until he's satisfied. The tempo increases, becoming a cohesive melody that I remember first hearing during our ride on the train. The music reverberates throughout the beach and everyone grows quiet, even the waves are lulled by the remarkable sound.

Suddenly after the interlude ends, Chuck clears his throat and begins to sing:

_This fire grows higher…_

_This fire grows higher…_

_When there's a burning in your heart_

_An endless yearning in your heart_

_Build it bigger than the sun, let it grow, let it grow_

_When there's a burning in your heart, don't be alarmed._

_When there's a doubt within your mind,_

_Because you're thinking all the time_

_Framing rights into wrongs, move along, move along_

_When there's a doubt within your mind._

_When there's a burning in your heart,_

_And you think it'll burst apart_

_Or there is nothing to fear, save the tears, save the tears._

The beat is fast, fluxing between simplistic and more complicated rifts. His voice fills the air with a velvety richness that is pleasant to the ears. I can hardly convince myself that such a beautiful sound could come from Chuck's mouth. But upon reflection, it's not very surprising. Why he hasn't brought up this incredible talent beforehand is beyond me. As he continues his flawless performance, I wonder what other secret talents he is keeping from me.

_And if you feel just like a tourist in the city you were born, then it's time to go_

_And define your destination; there's so many different places to call home_

'_Cause when you find yourself a villain in the story you have written,_

_It's plain to see_

_That sometimes the best intentions are in need of redemption_

_Would you agree?_

_If so, please show me._

The song is drawing to an end. Chuck's final lines are barely audible amongst the crackling of embers and the rumbling of the ocean.

_When there is a burning in your heart,_

_Don't be alarmed._

He finishes with a last rift and everything become unnaturally, almost eerily still. Somehow the beachgoers are rendered speechless and I am of course, awestruck myself.

I am the first to snap out of it. Once Chuck starts stowing away the guitar back into its case, I begin to clap even though it feels like one of those horribly cliché romantic comedies. Fortunately, it catches on and the crowd erupts into cheers and applause. Such an unexpected reaction startles Chuck. His eyes are as big as saucers. He tries walking towards me but is blocked by girls and boys respectively. They pat him on the back and offer him congratulatory beers. I stand and watch from afar, enjoying the sight of Chuck getting the praise he deserves.

As they begin chanting a chorus of, "Stanford! Stanford! Stanford!" demanding for an encore, there is a rough outline of a figure that lingers out of the corner of my eye. It lurks by parking lot with a pair of binoculars in hand.

I'm on guard almost at once, quickly searching for a possible escape route. What is bothersome about being a spy—or a conartist for that matter is that whether that part of your life is in the past or present, the paranoia will follow you regardless. This shadowy figure can surely be CIA, but there is an equal or greater chance that it's just someone who's stargazing.

It _is_ looking to be a beautiful night.

Even so, my senses are on fire. I am ready for either outcome. If I deem there to be any danger, we'll run. I already feel my heart beating abnormally fast, my lungs heaving, and adrenaline pumping through my veins. My feet are inching to move. Fight or flight, I'll know the answer soon enough.

"Hey baby, what are you doin' here all by yourself?"

I blink, refocusing my gaze. There is a man wearing a UCSD shirt that clumsily approaches me. He staggers across the beach with a drink in hand and grins like a fool. Narrowing my eyes, I am not in the mood to be flirting with a drunken frat boy.

"Please go away." I say, trying to sound pleasant.

The college boy merely smirks, closing the gap between us. His drink sloshes out of the cup and soaks my blouse almost purposefully. I glare, but this asshole is either too drunk, too ignorant, or perhaps both to notice my annoyance flaring up.

"Oops I'm sorry!" He slurs unapologetically.

Now he slings an arm around my shoulder I inhale the smell of stale alcohol on his breath. My body goes rigid out of habit and there's a white hot rage that boils inside me. I want nothing more than to make this frat boy regret ever talking to me. The only reason that prevents me from acting on this impulse is the off-chance that we _are_being tailed by the CIA and that drawing any unnecessary attention would be a very bad idea.

So I endure this painful moment until the crowd disperses and Chuck comes to my rescue. He walks up to me, in much better shape than the frat boy who is currently holding me hostage. By the light of the bonfire I see Chuck's expression. He's definitely buzzed; slightly amused, but there is also a hint of jealousy weighing on his features.

"Sarah, what's going on?" He asks with eyes trained on my capturer.

I stare at him pleadingly. "Hi Chuck, I can use a little help here."

The boy hugs me tighter as if to deliberately start an argument with Chuck. My hands then ball into fists, clenching to where they begin to shake. Chuck no longer appears to be in a humorous mood. He is not smiling. Instead, there is a disapproving scowl set on his face.

"Let her go," Chuck says and is unusually calm. "If you can't tell, she obviously doesn't want anything to do with you."

"Let her go?" The boy snorts. "You think she's gonna go with you, just because you can play a stupid instrument?" He pronounces _instrument_to where it's practically unintelligible. "Yeah right, buddy."

Chuck rides his high, boldly stating. "She's actually with me. So if you'd please release her, I don't want to make this a big deal."

The frat boy is stubborn and won't budge. A well-placed roundhouse kick could remedy that fault, if I could just drop all pretenses and beat him into an unconscious heap. "Fuck you," he snarls.

They look like a pair of wolves, the way their eyes lock and their bodies coiled to attack. One move and they'll tear each other apart. Chuck takes a daunting step forward, accepting the challenge. He pulls me right out of the boy's unsuspecting grasp. He has a vice-like grip and I doubt he'll let me go till this confrontation is over.

"Are you alright?" He asks lowly.

I nod, "I'm fine."

"Good, let's get out of here—"

It's dark but not enough to miss what happens next. The frat boy lunges aggressively at Chuck, making a beeline to attack. He throws a punch, but Chuck is still paying attention to me. Suddenly, a change overcomes him. As the fist is about to make contact, Chuck lifts the guitar case an blocks it. I hear the distinct shatter of bone and the boy howls. Then Chuck quickly takes the case and slams it into the boy's face. He drops to the sand, rolling in agony, unsure whether to cradle his broken hand, or his mangled nose.

Now the crowd circles us yet again. Everyone is whispering or stunned to silence. Chuck looks to be in complete shock. He stares at the wounded boy with wide eyes and blank terror. The figure once by the parking lot has gone, and I feel it's about time to leave as well. I grab Chuck by the wrist and without further explanation, I direct us out of the bonfire and into the darkness.

* * *

><p>We come across an abandoned life guard tower and take refuge there.<p>

Huddled beneath it, we sit side by side. Chuck won't talk. His knees are drawn into his chest and he holds the bloodstained guitar case like a lifeline. He is trying to reconcile with his actions but seems to be failing miserably. I study him for awhile longer and then look to the ocean. The moon shines on its midnight surface. Waves rolls into the shore, and while it's impossible to see, I can still hear the surf with striking clarity.

At last, I say. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"I've never been in a fight before," Chuck mumbles. "Not a real one anyway…"

"Well now you can say you have, and you won on top of that."

He finally turns to me, his expression grave. "I just hurt someone for no apparent reason. I don't know why I did it, where that anger came from and it scares the crap out of me."

I don't know the answers to his worries, but they're justified. All I can do is be calm and composed. I have to be strong for Chuck or else he'll freak out worse than he is now.

I place comforting hand on the nape of his neck. "You defended my honor, Chuck. It was a sweet thing for you to do. No one has ever done that for me before, so trust me when I say that I'm truly grateful."

"So you don't think I'm crazy?"

I shake my head, smiling. "Aren't we all a little crazy sometimes?"

We hold gazes until Chuck's guilt has been assuaged and he finally returns my smile with his own lopsided one. I begin to rub his neck, muscles go slack, the tension vanishing.

Like a moth to a flame, I am hopelessly drawn to Chuck. He has this _way_ about him. It's an unavoidable presence, like a black hole, and its pull is so devastating that to resist it would be only a vain attempt to escape the inevitable. There's no use in fighting it. I don't remember at what point my love for him became so real. But it has, and somehow temporarily curing me of all my fears and insecurities.

I lean forward, tentatively at first. But enough courage surges through me and my lips find his. They barely touch but simple contact sends shivers of delight through my entire body. Chuck responds by settling his palm on my cheek, caressing me gently. The kiss deepens and my forehead rests against his. When our need for air becomes too great, we part.

Not a word is spoken for the remainder of the night. I fall into the sand and close my eyes while my breathing regulates itself, relief consuming me entirely. I feel Chuck lay beside me, a pleasurable sigh escaping him. As we drift off to separate dreams, he grabs my hand and gives me an affectionate squeeze.

But that is all, and for now we sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>An: <strong>Ahem, what did you guys think? That was a little labor extensive wasn't it?

Some side notes:

1. San Clemente is my hometown :)

2. When Sarah says, "And that is the truth." That is a repeated line from the book series **The Dark Tower**by Stephen King. I'll be including a lot of stuff from it, but no knowledge is needed.

3. Ren Mar is a fictional beach town from the Showtime series, Weeds.

4. The song Chuck sings is "You are a Tourist" by Death Cab for Cutie. Its currently my favorite, so that's why I picked it! Plus the acoustics are AWESOME!

5. Red Vines: What the hell can't they do?

6. Next chapter has an unlikely (and infamous Chuck character) appearing. But will he/she be there to help or hinder Chuck and Sarah?

R&R


	7. Chapter Six

**An:**Oh man, this update took _forever!_I apologize, no amount of excuses can properly explain that I was just lazy and rewrote this chapter multiple times. Originally, this chapter was going to be longer than this, but I wanted to update this story, so I broke it up into two chapters. This is Charah fluff to the extreme. It's a precursor to the angst y'all be reading in the forthcoming installments. Yes, boo hiss. But its good angst, not unnecessary Season 3 angst. (And it'll last about 1 chapter)

So enjoy and don't forget to review!

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><p><strong>Chapter Six<strong>

February 18th, 2003

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><p>The following day begins once sunrise leaks between the cracks in the floorboards lifted above where I currently sleep. The warmth of the sun trickles down and envelops me with light, gradually luring me to consciousness. My eyes draw apart; dazzled by these glaring rays dancing in view. It's so bright and unexpected to my sensitive vision that I instinctively raise a hand to shield my face. For a moment or so, there's no recollection of where I am and how I came to be there. Then all disorientation passes the instant my ears are ambushed by the unmistakable roar of the surf nearby. An incoming wave approaches the shore and crashes against the rocks with incredible force. The ocean sprays the beach with a powerful mist that leaves me refreshed and fully awake. Now realization sinks in. I have been lying beneath the rafters of the lifeguard tower this entire time. My body is curled upon the cold, damp sand.<p>

I am not alone either.

There is a pair of arms fastened securely around my waist, inviting me into a welcoming heat that combats the crisp morning air. While my brain is a bit hazy, I can distinctly recall that Chuck and I were a good distance apart before we dozed off last night. Somehow our hand holding had taken a drastic turn, ending with Chuck and me in a very _compromising _position.

Such an intrusion of privacy is foreign to me. I'm not used to being so close to another person. Being a spy has eliminated any display of comfort or affection, so something as simple as my body cradled against Chuck renders me too stunned to move. Chuck appears to sense the tension even in his seemingly unconscious state. He nuzzles the crook of my neck, his hot breath tickling the underside of my jaw. To my amazement, my muscles slacken and surrender to his touch. With a loud exhale of relief, I allow myself to relax and waste the remainder of the morning in Chuck's embrace.

Despite being blissfully asleep, I feel Chuck smiling against my flushed skin. It causes me to reciprocate, the edges of my lips quirking into an elated grin. The silence breaks once I hear him mumble my name.

_"Sarah."_

I furrow my brows curiously, whispering. "Chuck, are you awake?"

Chuck stills briefly when I address him. If he _is _awake, I can only imagine how shocked he must be to be woken up with me wrapped in his arms, our bodies pressed so close together. His expression would be priceless. I stifle my laughter, and Chuck hugs me tighter to his chest. Once he begins to snore, I roll my eyes. _Guess not…_

Even though I don't appreciate Chuck's poorly timed habit of disturbing the peace with his obnoxious sleeping habits, I am relieved that he's asleep. It gives me some time to myself; to think and figure things out. Not to risk waking him up, I carefully twist my head to get a full view of the sun as it peaks over the horizon, drenching the coastlines with its brilliance. The sky has brightened to a much lighter, hopeful shade of blue. I am mesmerized its simplistic beauty, the gentle sway lulling me to where I feel practically weightless in Chuck's lazy grasp.

My thoughts start with the CIA; where they are and what they must be planning. It brings me back to that figure that was "stargazing" last night. I could just be paranoid but my instincts haven't betrayed me yet. Whoever that was, he or she had been spying on Chuck and I. That is undeniable. This leads me to wonder where our mystery stalker is; waiting for us at the parking lot, or maybe rounding up additional agents to trap us here on the beach. Whatever the case, it keeps me on edge. Although, my mind strays, and the weariness that once occupied my heart is replaced with a burst of soaring joy.

We kissed.

I should probably be freaking out. I knowingly allowed myself to acquiesce to these feeling for Chuck and then acted upon them. It might have been the alcohol that did it. That could be the excuse if I regretted my decision. But that was Agent Walker's method of reconciling with her actions. Not mine. I harbor no guilt for showing Chuck that I do care for him, and then to find out that he actually cares about me too. How can I possibly reject that whirlwind of emotion that burst out of me the instant our lips met? I'm almost tempted to pinch myself and see whether all of this is a figment of my imagination. Instead, I lick my lips and savor the taste that lingers, wincing because they're still very tender. It's just another reminder of how a simple affectionate kiss can turn into an act of fiery passion.

Again, I _should_ be freaking out.

I _should _be running as far away from Chuck as I possibly can.

At least I _should _be detaching myself from Chuck and every feeling I have for him, genuine or otherwise.

There is countless of things I _should _be doing, but there is no deliberation. I don't move an inch. To solidify my belief, I place my hand over Chuck's. Our fingers intertwine and I refuse to leave. Chuck seems to agree with me; I feel him squeeze my hand, stroking a thumb across my knuckles. My eyes flutter and a wave of exhaustion suddenly overwhelms me. With the rocking of the waves in synch with the steady beat of Chuck's heart, I enjoy these last several seconds before I inevitably drift to sleep.

But moments like these rarely last. Louder than the surf or the flock of seagulls that circle high above us squawking, a voice bellows like a fog horn. My instincts kick into overdrive as if someone lit a fire beneath me. I spring into action and Chuck is violently knocked aside by my haste. I can hear him groaning but there's no time to check if he's injured. No, I'm too focused; about the draw the knife I have tucked safely in my boot, fully anticipating that the CIA has us surrounded.

Yet there is not a spy in sight. There's only a lifeguard who stands at the foot of the tower, staring down Chuck and me with judgmental eyes.

"Tell me what the two of you are doing here so early?" He demands in an accusatory tone. "This beach is currently off-limits to all patrons, paying or otherwise. We have a zero tolerance policy and do not condone to trespassing!"

I release the hilt of the blade with shaky fingers. My mind reeling: _that was close, too close. _If I hadn't hesitated, an innocent man would be dead. On top of that, Chuck would have witnessed my mistake. Conjuring his possible reaction frightens me more than committing the murder itself. This bothers me greatly since my aversion to killing is what got me into this mess in the first place. I feel my heart pound furiously like it will explode. I'm positively sick to my stomach.

"Well…?" The lifeguard says impatiently.

I swallow the bile rising in my throat, trying to compose myself. "Well, what happened was…"

"—oh god, would you _please_stop yelling!"

My eyes widen in horror and I see its Chuck who spoke. He is propped on his elbows and now pushes himself into an upright position. His posture is slouched, hair shaggy and littered with sand. He cradles his head with both hands. He's visibly upset; face cringing at the most subtle movement or noise like it causes him great distress. It becomes abundantly clear to the lifeguard and me that Chuck's currently fighting a dreadful hangover.

_Great, that's all I need to deal with right now,_I think in frustration. _For a college student, Chuck's sure a light weight when it comes to alcohol…_

I don't realize that the lifeguard has turned his attention to Chuck. He takes advantage of Chuck's disorientation by bombarding him with questions. "It seems like you had quite the night," he says suspiciously. "By any chance, was either of you at the bonfire yesterday? Things got pretty crazy from what I hear. There were illegal substances, several noise complaints, not to mention the fight that broke out. The party got crashed by the police and everything. They ended up finding one of the kids responsible for the brawl with a broken wrist and fractured nose."

The news about the busted party isn't shocking. But the mentioning of what came of the drunken frat boy is a bit unnerving. It manages to snap Chuck from his stupor and he shoots me a worried glance.

"You're looking a bit nervous," the lifeguard observes. "Do you have something to tell me, kid?"

I suspect that Chuck is too overwhelmed with guilt to deny that self-entitled bastard's claims. So I take it upon myself to set the record straight. "Yes, we were at the bonfire last night," I admit. "Once those two boys began fighting each other, I got scared and my boyfriend decided it was better to just leave."

Chuck starts to nod in agreement before he ends up doing a quick double-take instead. His eyes grow in slow realization that yes, I did call him my boyfriend. For the story of course. He probably knows that too, but it doesn't stop the ridiculous smile from spreading wide across his face.

"While I'm glad that your _boyfriend_is so admirable," the lifeguard says dryly, "it still doesn't explain what you are doing sleeping under my tower."

I'm stumped on how to alleviate the situation. To the average spectator, it'd be perfectly within their reason to guess why two young adults of the opposite gender were hiding beneath a lifeguard tower in the dead of night. Especially since Chuck and I were discovered practically tangled in each other, we are pretty much doomed.

As I try to think of a way to weasel out of this mess, Chuck interjects. "We were drunk. It's bound to happen since we're both of age and we can show you some identification as proof. So naturally, as the _admirable_ boyfriend, I didn't think it was smart of us to get behind the wheel."

I'm surprised at Chuck's initiative. I play along, apologizing. "I'm really sorry for inconveniencing you like this. It will never happen again, I promise."

The lifeguard studies us for awhile, then pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Fine, fine," he relents. "I'll give you both a warning this time, but only if you get out of my sight."

"Yes sir," we say in unison. "Thank you."

Not needing to be told twice, we scramble to our feet. Chuck grabs his guitar while I adjust my clothing. The lifeguard gives us a final disapproving glare then turns his back on us and leaves. Once he's out of sight and earshot, Chuck heaves a huge sigh of relief.

"That sure was an interesting wakeup call."

I blush and avert my gaze, nodding in agreement but for an entirely different reason.

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><p>We stroll along the beach in comfortable silence, Chuck with hands jammed in his pockets and kicking plumes of sand for his own amusement while I look far ahead, staring at nothing in particular. There are crabs scuttling across the shoreline, chasing the whitewash. Seagulls pick at the seaweed and at the other small critters. The ocean glitters like a blanket of diamonds. At some point, I stop walking and watch absently as the sun melts the remaining increments of darkness left over from the night before. Chuck stands beside me and crouches to his knees, grabbing a pebble before the waves can carry it away. He stands up and tosses as far as he can. It skips across the whitecaps until it eventually disappears beneath the surface.<p>

His arms folded over his chest and head angled to the sky, Chuck smiles. The hangover effect's are either subsiding or he just won't let it put a hamper on his otherwise uplifting mood. "So, what's on the agenda for today?" He asks.

Immediately, I begin to envision us someplace warm, exotic and far away from here. We could escape from the CIA's clutches and not have to worry about the chance of death or imprisonment. We'd be free and at peace._ Cancun, _I think idly. _Would Chuck go for it? _It's a last ditch effort to persuade him from continuing this foolish, not to mention dangerous cross-country road trip. Lost in thought, a wave glides over my boots, seeping into the leather and drenching my feet. It's cool and cleansing, making my toes curl when shivers race up my spine.

"That depends," I finally answer. "Have you reconsidered taking that detour across the border with me?"

Chuck laughs. "You're really committed to the idea, aren't you?" He bumps my shoulder playfully. "Why do you want to get out of the country so bad, Sarah? Are you hiding something from me? Please don't tell me you're some sort of criminal who broke out of prison and is being pursued by the cops. It's a little _too_ 'Shawshank Redemption' for me."

What is obviously meant to be a joke has taken me by surprise. Chuck's assumption is frighteningly accurate. I try to seem aloof, schooling my features but all I can really do is chuckle nervously and hope Chuck changes the subject.

"Sorry, not a criminal," I say and we resume our slow pace back to the parking lot. "I am just tired of seeing the same thing everywhere I go. Wouldn't it be nice to go somewhere totally isolated from the world? Plus, I heard that the beaches at Cancun are absolutely gorgeous."

"I don't see what's wrong with the beaches here," remarks Chuck thoughtfully. "I thought they were pretty nice last night."

I glance at him briefly to see the faintest twinkle in his eyes. I muse, _He remembers. _As relieved and happy as I feel, I remain flippant and shrug. "It was too cold. Think if we were in Cancun, it'd be hot all day—"

"Not much use for clothes then," quips Chuck, his voice filled with humor. "They're such a hassle anyways, not to mention overrated too."

I ask brightly. "So we are in agreement then?"

Chuck takes me by either hand and we stop again, just a few yards shy of the parking grounds. I can even see the glimmer of the Mustang's red paintjob in the distance. I meet Chuck's gaze with an eagerness that feels wholly out of character for me. But the swirl of his chocolate eyes is intoxicating. They hypnotize me to where I am at his complete mercy.

He smiles disarmingly; tucking an errant curl behind my ear. I lean into his caress, feeling his fingers slide to tilt my chin up. He dips his head and memories of last night (our first kiss shared beneath the moonlight) begins to replay in my mind. With our lips barely apart, I close my eyes and wait for those feelings of euphoria to return.

After a long pause and no kiss, I become confused and even slightly impatient. I crack one eye open to find Chuck had pulled back. He's not looking at me anymore; in fact, he's fixed with something clear over my shoulder instead. He stares unblinkingly; eyes strangely despondent like he's caught in a trance. Worried, I glance behind me to see what has Chuck so preoccupied.

It's not a what rather than a _who._

A man stands by the parking grounds that stretch around the outskirts of the beach. He leans against a picnic table with binoculars raised to his eyes. They obscure his identity until he drops his hands and I can get a decent look at his face. With dark hair and eyes, muscular build and a cool demeanor, this stranger is CIA. I'd venture to guess he even has a gun somewhere on his person as well. But how Chuck had spotted him, and then somehow knows that he is dangerous concerns me most.

"Chuck," I say and turn to him. He remains unresponsive and I fear he won't snap out of this daze. I know this has to do with Orion's glasses. This is the same look Chuck had before fighting the frat boy. But that lasted for a fraction of a second and this won't end. Desperate, I brace myself for what I'm about to do next.

_Well, here goes nothing. _I inhale a deep breath.

Bringing my hands to Chuck, I cup his face and lean forward to kiss him as hard and passionately as I possibly can.

Immediately, I feel Chuck react. He returns the kiss with more fervor; palms resting on the small of my back as he presses against me, slipping his tongue into my mouth as we wrestle for dominance. When a moan escapes my throat, it alerts Chuck and he releases me at once. He retreats a few steps, his face red with embarrassment, shame, and most of all: bewilderment.

"What just happened?" He asks voice soft to hide the hysteria. "D-did I…take advantage of you?"

I frown, incredulously. "No, Chuck…don't you remember anything?"

Chuck shakes his head. "Uh, we were walking down the beach and talked about going to Cancun, and then…" He stares at his shoes, "We were kissing."

"That's it?"

He nods.

"And you feel ok?"

"Besides the headache, I feel pretty good," answers Chuck and I know he's alluding to our brief make-out session. It's troubling that he's not taking this seriously. Half of me insist on knocking some sense into him while the other half yearns for a repeated performance. Cooler heads prevail and I do neither. I decide it's better to let Chuck's weird condition go for now. My priority is to get him back to the car. Eluding that CIA agent is our best bet at staying safe.

"Fine," I say unhappily. "I hope you're not lying to me, Chuck. Kissing won't always magically heal you."

Chuck grins. "Did you say kissing as in plural?"

"What are you getting at?"

"I just like hearing that there will be more in the future," he wiggles his eyebrows seductively. "Maybe I should blackout more often."

I scowl at him, but my expression softens when Chuck plants a chaste kiss on the top of my head. He pulls away and I smile bashfully. He just loves tugging on my heartstrings. When he takes me by the hand once more, we finish our trek back to the parking grounds. I steal one final glance before we leave. I expect the CIA agent to be still lingering by the picnic tables, watching our slightest move.

My blood runs cold when I see no one.

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><p><strong>An:<strong>Dun dun dunnnn! Stay tuned for Chapter Seven which should be posted sooner rather than later. Speaking of later, it's almost two in the morning and I'm going to pass out. Later!

R&R!


	8. Chapter Seven

**An:**Well, that took...forever. Understatement of the century! I can't even begin to try and apologize for not updating in like *mentally counts but loses track* exactly. If I say school, writer's block and other stories had been factors for the delay, it'd only be a poor excuse. Honestly, I really think I just needed a break from this story. It kind of gets tiresome when you're writing from one character's POV, then the fact that I sort of got apprehensive about the plot. But now I'm rejuvenated and ready to rock n' roll! (Thanks Zac)

Now about my other stories.

1. **When the Lines Overlap:** Chapter Two is next on my lengthy To-Do list. So expect an update for that.

2.**Born Under a Bad Sign:** Chapter Three is underway. Fyi, this is a collaboration between Aerox and I, and our joint penname is ShinyAerox1991.

Alright, now that's out of the way, please forgive me and enjoy this chapter!

R&R!

**An2:**To Anonymous Reviewer "Kenny Floom," you think you're so funny stealing my boyfriend's identity, don't you? Dude, I spent the entire night with him at his place and he had no chance to leave those terrible reviews. Believe me, I kept him occupied. So better look next time, troll, or i'll find who you are, and fucking peel your eyelids off so you'll see when I stab you in the fucking face. Got it?

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><p><strong>Chapter Seven<strong>

February 18th, 2003

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><p>Blindsided. That's exactly how I feel when my eyes refuse to leave the picnic tables. They're deserted. The man I've suspected of being CIA has made himself scarce. Strange. He had just been there not moments ago, spying on Chuck and me. Now he's gone. Like a ghost, or more appropriately, a spook.<p>

_Convenient, _I think. Though my insides twist because I know it was intentional.

There's a sickness that engulfs me, driving bile up my throat. I'm suddenly overcome with paranoia. Though I'm unsure if my brain is overreacting, or if the panic is warranted. Regardless, the shock has yet to wear off. I feel like I am slowly losing my grip when I come to realize the gravity of our predicament, and the inevitable danger that Chuck and I will undoubtedly face. I am petrified as my worst fears are about to be confirmed.

My breath hitches. I try to mask the distress gnawing at me from the inside to no avail. It's useless pretending what I cannot hide. A butterfly has already taken flight; flapping its wings. This single moment, this one slip-up has started a chain of irreversible events. Everything is spiraling out of control and I hardly know which way is up.

We've been found.

I nearly forget that Chuck is here. He has been standing beside me; his fingers intertwine with mine this whole time. My hand trembles and he gives me an affectionate squeeze. I feel his warmth and my despondence fades. A stream of electricity runs from him to me, burning like wildfire. It jolts me back into focus as though I've awakened from a horrible nightmare.

I am shaking.

Chuck asks. "Hey, what are you staring at?"

His voice sounds curious, a touch worried. I tear my eyes from the unoccupied benches and force myself to meet his. Chuck trades quick glances from me, to where I had been staring, and then to me again. His brows draw together, confusion evident.

"Nothing," I say and shrug nonchalantly. "I was just thinking."

Chuck attempts to smile but it falters, and it's because he doubts me. He drops the subject however, despite knowing perfectly well that I am withholding something from him. Why he hasn't accused me of being so secretive is infuriating. He hasn't demanded any answers, or questioned my motives. It's like he acknowledges the blatant rift between us. I can read him so easily. It's written across his face, lurking in the depths of his kindly gaze. Yet he will continue to let me stew until I'm overwhelmed with guilt. It will only ultimately end with my confession.

_What will break me?_

That is the question. What will break me into a million pieces so that I will freely divulge every single one of my secrets to Chuck? When will he know the truth, that this is not some ordinary road-trip and that I'm not the model American girl he so desperately craves for?

I try to imagine Chuck's reaction. His look of utter devastation when he first learns of my betrayal, and that spark in his eye that I have somehow rekindled, burns out indefinitely. I'm standing there, watching quietly, unable to say anything of real significance. But he'll never know that as his world crumbles, so will mine. A gaping hole in my heart is all my future holds.

"I was thinking that we should probably take this slow," says Chuck. He absently strokes his thumb over my knuckle as we start walking to the parking grounds again. The red Mustang sparkles brilliantly in the distance. "What do you think about stopping at another motel?"

I nod enthusiastically. "A hot shower sounds nice after spending the entire night sleeping in sand."

"Yeah, and that hangover is really starting to affect me," adds Chuck, grimacing. "Remind me to never drink that much in one sitting ever again."

A soft laugh escapes me, but my thoughts are elsewhere. Too busy devising a plan to evade our CIA stalker. "After personally witnessing how those college students pretty much humiliated themselves last night, I think you took your drunkenness with grace and dignity."

"By grace and dignity, you mean performing in front of a crowd of strangers and then getting into a fight?"

"Well, I thought it was pretty dignified, Chuck."

"So you like it when I constantly make a fool out of myself then?" He arches a brow. "I didn't figure you for a sadist, Sarah."

I playfully shove him. He loses his balance but catches himself. "Sadist?" I echo his words in mock aghast. "Believe me, if anything I'm a bit more of a masochist."

He smiles wistfully. "I guess that makes two of us then."

Chuck doesn't elaborate and I decide not to pressure him into further explanation. I can give him the same curtsey as he had for me. But he wasn't joking in the slightest. There was a definitive hurt in his tone. He's obviously suffering in more ways than one. I am responsible for at least half of it, the emotional anguish. Then there's the physical pain. Chuck pretends to be alright, but he and I both know he's not. Since he donned those sunglasses Orion had given me, Chuck has suffered from bouts of disorientation and headaches. His latest episode—not five minutes ago, has proved that it is getting worse.

_I will fix this, _I tell myself. _I will fix him._

We return to the parking lot in silence. It is deserted save for the Mustang, and most of the cars are long gone since the untimely end of the bonfire. There are seagulls traipsing around, scavenging for whatever they can find in the piles of trash littered in the area. While Chuck leans against the hood of the car, I dig for the keys in my back pocket. My fingers prod the switchblade I had almost used against the lifeguard. I feel my heart twist with regret. The thought of having to resort to it again disturbs me greatly.

"Hey, Sarah?" asks Chuck in a smaller voice. "Can I ask you something?"

I glance up, the keys dangling from my thumb and forefinger. "Sure, what's up?"

"I was wondering after we got cleaned up, would you mind going out to dinner," he pauses, adding sheepishly, "with me?"

I relax, smiling. "That actually sounds really nice, Chuck, but try being a bit more discreet the next time you ask me out on a date."

He stares at his feet, blushing madly. "Well, I didn't want to seem imposing, or make this a big deal. It'll just be low key, and feel free to just stop me now."

"Chuck, can I be honest?" I ask. His head snaps up, a mixed bag of emotions. "We've only known each other for less than a week."

"I know, but—"

"Let me finish," I say calmly. He falls silent. "Yes, we haven't known each other very long, but I feel like time doesn't really matter with us. We've already kissed, which usually is a milestone reserved for after the first date, right? So real relationships aren't applicable to us either…"

"What are you saying?"

I step forward, closing the space between us. "I'm saying that, Chuck Bartowski, I will go on a date with you. I would've said yes the moment you invited me into the compartment on the train, and after you saved me from that drunken idiot at the bonfire last night. I thought our last kiss pretty much sealed the deal."

All of the uncertainty that burdens Chuck seems to ebb away. "Ellie always said I was a bit thick-headed," he says, smiling, "so excuse me for not believing that a beautiful woman like you would fall for a guy like me."

I lean into him, circling my arms around his neck. As my hands become entangled with his wind-rumpled hair, I stare into his brown eyes. "Don't ever think less of yourself, Chuck. You're the most charming, selfless man I've ever met. Not only had you invite me to ride with you on the train, but you were there for me after I had a nightmare. Let's not forget how you carried me back to the motel after I stupidly fainted or defended my honor from that frat boy." His body is up against mine, the two of us fitting into each other perfectly. "There is no one else quite like you."

I don't give Chuck a rebuttal. My lips are already pressed firmly onto his, seeking to outdo all of our previous endearments. He quickly shakes out of his stupor and reciprocates the action, placing his hands at the small of my back to intensify the kiss. Both of our hearts are suddenly caught in love's snare, burning with equal passion. I feel him smiling, his tongue tracing a fiery path across my lips. This evokes a breathy moan, and I expel that last of the air from my lungs.

We are reluctant to part, but the desire to breathe trumps our willingness to continue. Chuck is still brightening my grey world with that patented Bartowski grin. He tucks a stray curl behind my ear and I revel in his loving touch. His fingers outline the contours of my figure, and I sigh with content. There isn't a single place I'd rather be than here with Chuck, safe in his embrace.

"The idea of dinner is sounding less appealing by the second," mumbles Chuck. He compresses his lips onto the underside of my jaw, then a bit lower to find a sweet spot I never knew I had. He gently nips at my flushed skin, my pulse racing to oblivion.

"Dinner is overrated," I gasp and he growls. "I much rather spend our first date at a motel. Maybe we can…order in."

Chuck lifts his head, amused. "You weren't kidding about us being unconventional."

I pout when he stops doing those wonderful things with his tongue. I mindfully suggest, "Well, would you rather be one of those normal boring couples that follows the rules, or be spontaneous and do something crazy?"

His smile broadens considerably. "You just referred to us as a couple."

"Is that alright with you?"

"I think I'll get used to it."At this, Chuck snakes his arms around my waist and hoists me off the ground. I squeal as he nuzzles into my neck. "Now, would you please unlock the car before I do something I might regret?"

I scramble frantically to recover the keys while Chuck drives me into a fit of giggles. Director Graham would have a field day if he could see me now. I don't even think he'd even recognize me with my hair dyed brunette, painted and dressed like the average women of my age. Most of all, my smile. It's like I'm a real girl.

But the mere thought of the CIA has my blood run cold. It's when I peer through my teary gaze, that I see a car pull up across from us. It's silver Audi. The windows are tinted but I have an inkling for who the identity of the driver is. I suddenly freeze in Chuck's arms, hairs standing on end. I have the keys clutched in my tight grasp. The only thing racing around my head is to get into the Mustang and drive far, far away from here.

I feel Chuck's breath ghost my neck when he asks. "Sarah, what's wrong? You just totally went limp…are you ok?"

"Put me down, Chuck." Is all I can say.

He lowers me to the ground, following my eyes to where the Audi is parked. The engine is still revving. "I'm guessing that you don't care for PDA, then? Good, because I'm not very partial to it either."

I shake my head, whispering. "Chuck, get in the car."

He won't budge. "Why?"

The Audi flashes its headlights on us. I feel adrenaline surge throughout my veins, lighting my entire body ablaze. My brain is screaming for me to act, to do something. To more importantly, protect Chuck at all cost.

I unlock the Mustang before answering to Chuck. "I won't ask you again, get in the car."

"Sarah, at least tell me what's—"

When the driver exits the Audi, I don't risk finding out who it is. Immediately, I grab Chuck by the wrist and force him into the Mustang. I continue to wrestle with him, but he puts up a struggle. However his efforts are no match for me. After I have him pinned to the seat, all the surrounding doors are locked shut. He gives door handle a useless tug and when it doesn't budge, resigns himself to defeat. His hands fall into his lap; eyes focused onto me. They are brimming with confusion, anger, and a hint of fear.

"What was that all about?" He demands. "Who was that, Sarah? Tell me what's going on!"

"Chuck, keep your voice down." I say calmly. "There's no need to get upset—"

He stops me there. "I think it's perfectly within my right to be upset. You randomly freaked out when that car pulled up, then literally manhandled me to get out of sight. Explain that to me, please."

I sigh. "It's complicated…"

Chuck won't accept another halfhearted excuse. He steals the keys from my grasp and holds them hostage. "Tell me or we're not going anywhere."

I make a dive for the keys but he manages to keep them just out of my grasp. I flash him a dangerous look, my nostrils flaring with impatience. "I have a strong suspicion that the driver of that car is the same guy who's been stalking us since last night."

"Stalking us? I never noticed anybody—"

"Of course you wouldn't!" I raise my voice. "You won't notice anything strange if you're not looking for it."

"And you were?" questions Chuck.

I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. "Yes, I was. There was a man spying on us with a pair of binoculars."

"Maybe he was just stargazing?" says Chuck. "I mean, it was a really clear night and…"

"No," I shake my head.

Chuck throws his hands up in exasperation. "So, what? Just because you think some stranger is creeping on us, it gives you the right to act like some kind of spy—"

"—shut up, Chuck!" I order but the words die on my lips when I see the CIA agent abandon the silver vehicle. It's him. He's clearly armed and heading right towards us. I grab Chuck by the wrist and drag him away from the window. I hiss, "Get down!"

"Sarah, please tell me what's happening!" protests Chuck. "I can't see anything!"

I ignore him, watching as the enemy spy scans the parking lot. He settles his dark eyes on the Mustang and presses forward much to my dismay.

"Dammit," I curse under my breath.

By using the stealth I've acquired as a spy, I manage to draw the switchblade and unlock the driver's door without making a sound. Chuck's eyes widen as he catches the sharp glint of the knife that's in my firm grasp. He makes an odd, strangled noise; clapping both hands over his mouth to shut himself up. I hold an index finger to my lips and shush him.

"Trust me," I whisper.

Chuck is too frightened to argue. He gives a simple nod of affirmation.

I wait until the CIA agent moves closer to my side of the car. Once he's within distance, I kick the door ajar. It slams into his chest with great force, knocking him to the pavement. I dash out into the open and go for the firearm he had dropped in the scuffle. I pick it up and hold him at gunpoint.

I hear Chuck exclaim, "Holy shit!" and find myself smirking faintly.

He wrenches the passenger door ajar and is about to bound out of the car in excitement. I stop him. "Stay in the car, Chuck!"

My voice echoes throughout the empty lot. It renders Chuck completely motionless, his eyes locked onto mine. There is no trace of fear, only resentment. He falls back inside of the Mustang. A second later and the hood suddenly retract into its convertible setting. I see Chuck standing up, leaning against the windshield with arms folded across his chest. I clench my teeth to resist from saying something I'd surely regret.

"Technically, I am still in the car." He gestures. There is a spiteful tone to his voice and it does not suit him in the slightest. How things between us could go from one extreme to the other in such a short span of time is disheartening. Neither of us knows what to expect from the other. I guess we really are just strangers.

With nothing left to say, I turn my attention to the man lying on the asphalt. "I'm going to ask you two simple questions, answer them or I shoot: who are you and why have you been following us?"

The man groans, lifting his hands up in a placating gesture. "I'm not here to hurt you, Agent Walker. If you'd just let me up, I'd be happy to explain myself."

I rest the heel of my boot on top of his heaving chest, unfazed. "How about you stay right there and start talking fast?"

"Do what he says, _Agent Walker."_Chuck interjects. I glance over my shoulder, confused. "Apparently, he's one of your colleagues, and please don't ask me how I know that because I have no freaking clue."

"A former CIA agent, actually," the man corrects Chuck. He smiles. "Just like you." The weight of my foot on his chest lessens a bit as I begin to believe him. "My name is Daniel Shaw."

"I've never heard of an Agent Shaw before".

"Technically, there are two of us," Shaw explains hastily. "The other being my wife, Evelyn."

I shake my head, confused. "I don't understand why you're telling me this. Just give me the truth about why you've been following Chuck and I!"

Shaw rolls his eyes. "That's what I'm trying to do. Listen to me. My wife was almost killed a month ago in Paris. She had an undercover assignment, working as a double agent for the CIA."

I feel sick again.

"One night, she ran into a woman," Shaw continues and I wish he wouldn't. I don't want to hear this again. "Apparently from what I've gathered after going deep in the CIA database, this was supposed to be a Red Test. Eve was the target. You were the agent."

"I didn't kill her!" I shout abruptly. "I couldn't, and I—I backed out of it and ran. There were other spies watching me, they must've—"

Shaw stops me. "I know what happened. Eve managed to escape. She's been off grid for as long as you. Luckily, I've been in sparse contact with her thanks to Orion."

Now I remove my foot off of his chest. I stumble backwards, speechless. "Orion? How do you know about him?"

Daniel Shaw stands up and dusts himself off. "He approached me through a secret CIA channel a few days after it happened. I was worried sick about my wife and he told me the truth. He gave me the option to get back at the CIA for trying to murder Eve. Said if I make sure to keep an eye on his son and you, he'd do that same for Eve."

Chuck has been unusually quiet throughout most of the discussion. I cast a glance in his direction. He's still in the same position, though his look of discontent has vanished. Now he's just as confused as I am.

"What are you talking about?" He asks Shaw. "Orion's son?"

Shaw directs his attention to Chuck. "You're Orion's kid."

"So you're saying that Stephen J Bartowski, my crazy father who abandoned me and my sister, is what? A spy?"

"More or less," I say. Chuck shoots me a withering glance and I wince. "Orion found me hiding in Sicily. He's the one who told me to return to the US. He said that I had to get to you, Chuck, before the CIA did. My job is to protect you."

"Protect me from what?" he shouts. "All I have gathered so far is that _protecting _is the same thing as lying and seducing."

I want to scream but stay composed. I choke on my anger, pleading instead. "Not now, Chuck. Please."

The tension between us does not go unnoticed. Shaw thankfully cuts in. "I'm sure things could've gone down a lot smoother, but the circumstances have been in a constant state of flux. As I said, Orion assigned me to watch over the two of you. Ever since the train station, I kept track."

Chuck interjects icily. "If you've been tailing us all the way back that far, why the hell did you wait till now to show yourself?"

"Because the CIA is already after you," admits Shaw. "Since Palo Alto. They've never lost you. CIA's best are after you, Agent Walker. He's an agent that goes by the codename the Eraser. He specializes in cleaning-up the agency's mess; in this case, collecting Orion's son and taking you in, dead or alive. So don't underestimate him."

I let this new information sink in. But then Chuck speaks up, voice cold. "His name is Clyde Decker." Both Shaw and I give Chuck surprised looks. He shrugs it off and dismissively adds. "If he's so dangerous than why hasn't he grabbed us yet?"

Shaw frowns, his look pensive before explaining. "He's probably biding his time for a slip-up. I wouldn't doubt he has his men following you. Decker has you where he wants you, so be aware at all times."

"I won't let him get the upper hand," I say, pausing. "But I don't know how long I can keep going like this."

"Orion is currently abroad," reveals Shaw. "I can't exactly say where since someone might be eavesdropping on our conversation. But he's safe. He wants to rendezvous soon."

"Tell him to contact me directly," I insist. "I'm tired with being in the dark. I can't keep driving around aimlessly if the CIA is already on our asses."

"I thought you'd say that," Shaw smiles and retrieves a phone from his pocket. He hands it to me and I take it unsurely. "Here, it's scrambled and will allow up to five minutes of untraceable conversation. Orion told me to give you it once we connected. When he thinks it's safe, he'll contact you."

"Where are you going?" I ask.

"Luckily, I've been in brief contact with my wife," Shaw answers, smiling. "I'm trying to find a safe passage to meet with her outside of the States. Hopefully then we can help Orion the best we can. I know more of these classified operations are being unraveled as we speak. Orion's leaking information, recruiting those who were subject to the CIA's foul play."

The nature of the conspiracy is still shrouded in mystery, and it gives me a splitting headache. I suddenly feel very tired. "Alright," I acquiesce. "Until Orion can call me, what should I do?"

Shaw merely reaches a hand towards me. I take it, making brief eye contact before we shake. "Just be careful, Agent Walker."

I nod uselessly. "The same goes for you and your wife. Tell her I'm sorry."

Shaw merely nods, then gives one more glance to Chuck. "You're in good hands. Walker was the best the Agency ever had before she threw it all away."

Chuck seems to consider this before shooting me a scathing glare, then reluctantly ducking back inside the Mustang. Shaw bids me a silent farewell, as it's probably smart of him to get out of dodge for various reasons. I don't think he wants to be here for what happens next, and frankly I don't blame him. It doesn't take any time to figure out why Chuck is upset. I am mortified to admit my shortcomings. All those moments of taking it for granted that Chuck thought I was this wonderful, innocent girl, are over. Finally, he can see me for what I truly am. Deceitful. Manipulative. Undeserving of his love.

But it's not like I didn't see this coming.

And I hate him for it.

* * *

><p><strong>An<strong>: Ok, so that chapter took forever to write. For some reason, I just kept tweaking and tweaking. Anyway, hey look, a wild Shaw appears! And his good! Wait, what? I wouldn't worry about him making repeated visits with Chuck and Sarah. Also, don't worry about the angst between Chuck and Sarah. It'll get resolved with wonderful payoff! ;)


	9. Chapter Eight

**An:**Hello loyal readers! As I promised, I am back with another chapter, and you didn't have to wait an eternity again! Who would've guessed right? So, this was originally supposed to be a lot longer, but I thought that I'd split it so I can write some good old fashion Charah lovin' next time. Also, it means that Part I of the story will be a total of ten chapters. So yay!

Enjoy the minimal angst (thanks to Aerox, I did a complete rewrite which according to him, would've made me a target of assassination) and R&R if you like making people happy. It's also the season of giving and um, I'm petty.

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><p><strong>Chapter Eight<strong>

February 18th, 2003

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><p>I am not perfect.<p>

Far from it in fact, and I repeat this in my head as life unravels. This isn't the first time I've been known for screwing up. Take a look at my track record and anyone would see how royally fucked I am. I can blame it on my upbringing, but that'd be too easy. People have this innate compulsion to fault the past for the present and sometimes future mistakes. It's a sure stubborn way to justify what is and shouldn't be. Just deny, deny, deny. It's not you, it's _them._It's the outside circumstances that are beyond your control. But I know better than that. Which is why I rather take full responsibility for my actions, which were borderline laughable now that I really think about it.

Hindsight is both illuminating and reliable, always rearing its ugly head once it's far too late to change the outcome. Funny, if I initially had gone with my heart instead of my brain, this mess could have been avoided. The coldhearted spy in me took precedence over the lovesick girl; driving me into deceiving Chuck when I should have been honest. He would have appreciated the truth; poor guy had been lied to enough before I came into his life. I suppose my betrayal was just the icing on the proverbial cake.

Call it what you want, I had a severe lapse in judgment. Though I know it was inevitable, unavoidable like a freight train storming down the railroad tracks at full speed. Somewhere down the line karma was going to catch up to me. It found me at the most inopportune time; hitting hard. Then again, that's the point of karma isn't it?

All in all, this isn't what I'd like to call an ideal situation. For me. For Chuck For us. If there is even an _us_anymore. That's the single question that continuously bounces around inside my skull. It's sort of petty, but mostly just pathetic. I'm worried about what a boy thinks of me. Agent Walker never cared about such trivial things. I guess Sarah just cares too much. How far the mighty have fallen. But this isn't just a normal boy. It's Chuck. My Chuck. Nothing else matters to me more than restoring the trust we had between us. Forget Orion and the CIA. They're just background noise. I need to figure out if Chuck will ever forgive me, even though it appears to be a resounding no. So you would think at this moment, I'd be in utter despair. It's strange because I feel only a sense of relief. I can give up the game. The jig is up, and Chuck's no longer out of the loop—he knows. The window of opportunity to make amends is closing fast, and desperate times calls for desperate measures. I am free to act as desperately as I wish; grovel on the floor if that's what it takes to right wrongs.

It'll take preparation, some time to make sure he will be willing to listen to me. As of right now, Chuck had literally tried burning holes into the back of my head. He'd probably find it more appealing to toss himself out of a moving vehicle than give me his ear. That's ok. He is upset and I can understand that the hurt runs deep. I've been there, done that. When Chuck's ready, he'll let me know. Until then, I may be ripe with words to say and feelings to profess, but communication was never one of my strong suits. Which is why this will more than likely be a very uncomfortable car ride.

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><p>There are really few better conversation stoppers than apologizing profusely to somebody who clearly wants to hear nothing of it. This is why I decide it's not worth spending a breath once Chuck puts on his headphones and slumps in the passenger's seat, drowning himself in music. So we ride in silence, the Mustang racing down the highway like a red blur. The blood sings so strongly that I forget to watch my speed as the meter continues to rise, unclear to where I am going.<p>

While I'm not periodically checking the rearview mirror (don't want to be caught off guard in case another spy decides to tail us again), I sneak glances at Chuck. His mood has yet to abate since we left the camping grounds. He is apparently deep in thought—perhaps considering whether to talk or bite his tongue. Whatever the case, he stares absently out of the window as the scenery changes from endless ocean to miles of rolling hills, without any attention wasted on me.

_He's not ready ,_I tell myself. _Good, because I'm not either._

Our destination is unclear and so I take the next freeway exit, coasting beneath amber streetlamps and going too fast through blurred traffic signals. We enter the city limits of Santee, an inland city on the outskirts of San Diego County. I roll up to a stoplight and my eyes drift closed as I try mustering the resolve to break this deafening silence. The light unsurprisingly drags on forever while I coach myself on how to approach a little problem called Chuck Bartowski. I shift restlessly in my seat when no there's no random epiphany or startling revelations to be had. I'm totally lost on how I can defuse a bomb with countless lives at stake, but articulating how I feel is simply an impossible feat to overcome.

I wish the CIA would've offered a class to better prepare me for these sorts of conditions: "Learning How to Conquer Your Crippling Social-Awkwardness." Or something along those lines. But sadly, all I learned on the Farm was how to hide my insecurities, not vanquish them.

Apparently, I am alone on this.

The cars behind us honk when the light flashes green. _Go._But I keep my foot on the break, just long enough to reopen my eyes and wait for the anxiety to dissipate. It does, and leaves a sense of frustration in its wake. The sudden spike of anger comes from nowhere in particular, and feels wholly out of place, but is directed at Chuck. For someone who loves to talk about anything really, he seems perfectly content with not uttering a word. I consider he's doing this on purpose, his own form of cruel punishment, but Chuck's not the malicious type. There's not one mean bone in his entire body. I'm just too blind by my own unhappiness to see otherwise.

"Hey lady!" A man's voice barks and my fingers arbitrarily clench the steering wheel. This is not the greatest time to be antagonized by some jerk with road rage. "Why don't you pull your head out of your ass and drive! You're holding up the entire line. GO!"

I grit my teeth, _that's it._

When I whirl around to give this obnoxious driver a piece of my mind, Chuck is already way ahead of me. He has torn off the headphones and without sparing a look at me, gives the man in the Ferrari (now it all makes sense) the middle finger. I can't help but to gawk in stunned silence, the comeback I had prepared, dying on my lips. I'd expect such a rude gesture from any twenty-something guy, but when Chuck does it, it feel wrong. I'm sure the world might spontaneously combust because it's surely the end of days when someone as even-tempered as Chuck, loses his cool.

I watch on as the male driver puffs out his chest in rage. He shouts, "Way to use your words, punk!"

This time, I don't hold back and neither does Chuck. We exclaim simultaneously: "Up yours!" before I stomp on the gas pedal and engine roars. The Mustang lurches forward and we leave the Ferrari in the dust. My heartbeat accelerates in tandem of the speedometer as I glide effortlessly around the winding road. When the throbbing in my chest bottoms out, I breathe a huge sigh.

What just happened?

"That was uncalled for," mutters Chuck, head down while fiddling with his iPod.

"And he speaks!" I say in mock-surprise. "Well, you sure showed him. I didn't think you had it in you."

He looks up. "I'm not that kind of person, Sarah. I just don't tolerate when idiots like that think it's alright to throw a tantrum in public. Nobody deserves to be on the end of that, not even you."

"Thank you for defending my honor, again." I pause. "You're still upset?"

"What do you think?"

"Do you...want to talk about it?"

"I appreciate the effort, but no. Not right now, maybe later. I dunno." His impassive mask drops and I see the briefest flicker of conflict residing in the depths of his brown gaze. When he places the headphones on and music echoes from the speakers, I know the conversation is over. I smile haplessly and continue to drive. Five minutes later and we hit a gas station and joint diner. My stomach growls. I pull over to dirt road and push the gear lever into park.

"If I go fill up the tank, will you save a table for two inside the restaurant?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Sure."

I turn off the engine and nod, pleased. At least he's compliant. "Thank you, Chuck."

He falters at the sincerity of my tone, and wears that torn look again. The expression does not fade this time and Chuck unbuckles his seatbelt, nodding dutifully before exiting the car. But he does not leave right away. Instead, he pauses and murmurs the last thing I'd ever expect to hear.

"See ya later, alligator."

I feel a tear trickle from each eye. I'll never understand why those words still affect me like this, or how Chuck could have possibly known about them. Unless it was a coincidence, then maybe...

Watching Chuck as he vanishes inside the diner's entrance, I whisper softly. "In awhile, crocodile."

* * *

><p>The day is sunny, mellow, and warm. It is a far cry from I how feel, but there's no reason for Mother Nature to mourn alongside me. The sunlight should be doing wonders for lifting my mood, and it does help. Just enough to give me a glimmer of hope that I will be strong enough to mend what I have broken.<p>

I pay for gas in cash. It's in-and-out, and before I know it, I'm following the same path Chuck had to the diner's front entrance. The door chimes when I emerge inside the establishment. It's a small place, cozy. I can appreciate the homey feel; warm with a delicious smell of home-cooked food hanging in the air. The seating is sparse and I'm relieved that I sent Chuck to scout a place to eat. Now I only have to find him.

A waiter approaches me, all smiles. "Hello," he greets. "Is this your first time to Cafe 67?"

I nod. "Yes, I was looking for my friend who saved us a table. Have you seen him?"

"Is he tall, sort of lanky with crazy hair and a soulful look in his eye?" asks the waiter.

"That's him."

He thumbs over his shoulder to a tiny booth at the far end of the diner. Sure enough Chuck is sitting there, on the phone with who I can only assume is his sister. I thank the waiter and head to the table where I wordlessly slide on the opposite side of Chuck. He gives me a look of acknowledgment, before finishing his chat with Ellie.

"Sis, I'll call you back alright?" He says and adds. "I love you too, and make sure to tell Morgan to get back to me about Call of Duty. I heard the game was just released and it's supposedly too epic for human consumption."

There's small beat where Ellie must have commented on her brother's weird passion for videogames. Chuck elicits a full-belly laugh that makes my lips curl upward into an easy smile. His laughter is positively contagious; almost erasing all of the bad that currently plagues my conscience. He reminds his sister how much he misses her and then ends the call.

I grab a menu and ask. "How's your sister?"

"She's fine," he says. "Worried sick about me, but fine. I think it was a wise decision on my part to omit the fact that the CIA is currently after me."

I've heard enough about Eleanor Faye Bartowski from Chuck to know that she's the kind of woman who was a force to be reckoned with. While we have never exactly been formerly introduced, I can only imagine how she could put the fear of god into each and every spy, including myself.

"That's probably for the best." I try and joke, keeping the conversation as light as possible. My eyes drop and roam the menu, skimming the items halfheartedly. While my hunger still remains, it takes a backseat to Chuck. "So..."

"So..." he trails off as well.

I glance up and open my mouth to speak, but the waiter from earlier sweeps in front of our booth. He looks at us with too cheerful of a grin; pad and pencil at the ready.

"Now, what would you two lovebirds like for breakfast?"

Chuck and I stiffen, trading horrified looks.

"Um, I'd like the special please," I sputter. "With a cup of coffee too."

"Same," nods Chuck.

The waiter collects our menus and remarks brightly. "Aw, you guys are just adorable. I'll be right back with your coffees."

When he excuses himself to tend to the other customers, Chuck mumbles under his breath. "Why does everyone think we're a couple?"

I choose not to answer. Instead, I suck in a mouthful of air and brace myself. "Look, Chuck." I start tentatively. "I know you said you didn't want to talk, but I want to. The longer we go without resolving this, the worse off we'll be."

"What's there to talk about?" asks Chuck coolly, and after scanning the diner, he drops his voice. "You were just following my dad's instructions to protect me. I accept that, and to make sure I was safe, you had to lie. I'm assuming that's part of the job as a spy. So I can't be angry at you personally, it's not your fault."

I frown, not liking where this is heading. "Chuck, I—"

He holds up a hand. "No, please let me finish. I want to thank you for keeping me safe, Agent Walker. But once we rendezvous, or whatever spies call it, with my dad, I don't think we should see each other again."

I sit back, jaw dropping when he tells me this. In any other situation, I would've kept my cool facade and let everything Chuck utters roll off me, unperturbed. But not this time. I feel my heart sinking like a capsizing ship. To refrain from drowning in front of Chuck, I snap my mouth shut and allow for him to finish his piece. Because once he's done, it's my turn to set things right between us.

When Chuck goes on, I tune him out. My eyes dart for today's newspaper. Its rolled up and nestled where the menus once resided. "—Playing me for a fool might be what you learned at the CIA, to keep me compliant and all, but I can't, I _won't_let you continue manipulating me once your services are no longer needed. That's not fair to me, Sarah."

"Chuck..." I whisper in a warning tone.

But he ignores me, asking with his voice raised slightly. "Is your name even Sarah? I mean, at first I gave you the benefit of the doubt. For these past few days, when you barely would talk about yourself, I thought you were a private person. But now, it makes sense. Everything about you is made-up. The person you were pretending to be was just there to have me wrapped around your finger. And congratulations, because that was a very convincing performance. I actually believed what we had was real."

I cross both arms over my chest and ask. "Are you done?"

"There's one more thing I have to get off my chest," says Chuck and sighs tiredly. "Was it real? Is there any shred of the girl I met on the train, real? Or have I been played the entire time?"

"You want the truth?"

"If you would give me the common curtsey."

He leans forward across the tabletop, his expression grave but earnest. I am too annoyed by his outburst to care about the underlying seriousness. So I make a clean grab for the newspaper and bop Chuck on the nose with fast and accurate precision. He looks startled; face changing into that of complete and utter confusion.

"Did you just...?"

"You're being absolutely ridiculous!" I nearly shout, pointing the newspaper at him for emphasis. Several customers turn their heads at my outburst, but I don't mind it. "I told myself that I would give you plenty of time to come to terms with what's going on. But I did not expect that for when we'd finally have this talk, you'd be so insufferable! How dare you accuse me of playing you?" When Chuck starts to retort, I smack him again. He retracts, his confusion replaced with fear. "No, no talking. You had your turn, its mine now. I know what you were going to say: you're a spy, Sarah, its part of the job description to manipulate others. And you'd be right, Chuck, if you didn't account for the fact that I'm not a spy!"

The waiter returns in the midst of our currently one-sided argument. He is oblivious of the tension crackling between Chuck and me and simply sets down our mugs of coffee. "You're meals will be ready in five, folks." When he has the audacity (or stupidity) to wink at us, I shoot him a death glare. His carefree disposition slips and he flees immediately.

I turn my attention back to Chuck, whose chocolate brown eyes have grown considerably larger since this "talk" first began. I feel a torrent of emotion swell inside me, bubbling to the surface. Everything I've ever wanted to say is rising up my throat like bile. I continue lowly. "So you want to know the truth about me, Chuck?"

He nods unsurely.

"Good, because here it is." I drop the newspaper and my face softens, the anger depleting when I regain some semblance of composure. "My name is Sarah Lisa Walker, and it was made legal the day I was recruited into the CIA. My birth certificate however, reads Samantha Lisa Westen. I was born on May 6th, 1980 to Jack and Emma Westen in Lawrence, Kansas. They got divorced when I was seven and I lived with my grandparents until I basically ran away with my dad when I couldn't stand the constant court dates or my broken family situation. My dad was, to put it lightly, a criminal. He was a con-artist while I was his partner on most jobs. We traveled around the US until he was arrested and sentenced to prison...

"I was eighteen when I watched him being dragged away in handcuffs. Initially, I was going to run, but the Director of the CIA found me first. I was given two options: either go to prison or become a spy. I was desperate and obviously chose the latter. I went to Harvard while I trained with the Agency, doing a few missions here and there to get ready for my final test. Remember when Agent Shaw explained that I threw it all away?"

Chuck says, "Yes." His face is disturbingly blank.

"He wasn't lying, Chuck. A spy's final exam before becoming an official operative is called the Rest Test. I was sent to Paris with only a time and place, and I had to kill a mark who the CIA deemed it was necessary to eradicate..." I trail off, images of that night fresh in my mind.

"You were supposed to kill Shaw's wife, Eve. Right?"

I meet Chuck's gaze, and see a flicker of emotion. Pity.

"I couldn't do it, Chuck. There was no way," my voice cracks. "I just couldn't make myself murder someone in cold blood. So I ran. I went off grid to get away. Your dad found me in Italy of all places, told me about you and that if I could keep you safe, and do my job, there would be a chance that I could go back to the US someday without having to worry about the CIA trying to come after me. So at first, yeah, you were an assignment. I had to think that way, Chuck, because I knew nothing else. But when I finally met you..." a watery smile tugs at my lips. "Everything changed."

I'm met with silence and its awhile before Chuck responds.

"What changed?"

"I didn't care about the job anymore. I mean, of course I still want to protect you. I'll do whatever it takes to make sure you're safe, Chuck. But it's different. _You're_ different. It scares me to death to actually admit, but if it will keep you from leaving, then I—Chuck," I say and the burden that's weighed me down for years is lifting. I feel lighter than air, like I'm breathing freely for the first time ever. "What I guess I'm trying to say is that...yes, it's real."

I remain fixed with Chuck, gauging his reaction. There's nothing more to say and so I leave it up to him to decide the outcome. A myriad of emotions flash across his countenance and there are far too many to distinguish them all. None of which conveys any anger or disappointment, so my worry alleviates. When the waiter once again comes back, it's with our meals. Neither of us acknowledges the two plates of delicious, steamy pancakes, eggs and bacon. We instead stare at each other. Both of our worlds frozen in time, and I hold my breath.

Chuck stretches his arm across the length of the table, placing his hand on top of mine. He gently begins stoking my knuckles as he did earlier this morning. When a smile graces his face, my heart soars to the heavens and time restarts itself.

"How about we start over with a clean slate," he suggests quietly.

There's no deliberation, and I nod my consent. "Sounds like a plan."

His eyes twinkle with a renewed spark. "How about I reintroduce myself? Hi, my name is Chuck Bartowski. Not to be confused with that other guy you had to put up with earlier, he was a complete asshole."

My smile broadens. "It's nice to meet you, Chuck. I'm Sarah."

"Sarah," he repeats and its slips off his tongue effortlessly. Like it was meant for him to speak only. "I like that name."

"Me too."

"That's what I wanted to hear," and he lets go of my hand to crawl quickly to my end of the booth. Reminiscent of the train compartment, our bodies touch and a stream of electricity ignites between the small space separating us. Chuck wordlessly tucks an errant curl behind my ear, staring directly into my face for confirmation, and asks. "Real or not real?"

I whisper, "Real."

And without protest, Chuck dips his head and our lips meet. Those enjoying their brunch in the tiny diner are none the wiser of what has transpired around them. Only Chuck and I know and as our kiss lingers, we leave are plates full of food, untouched.

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><p><strong>An:<strong>Look what I did! I solved the angst in one chapter! Be proud of me, please! If only you guys could've read what I originally wrote. All of you would've probably rage quit and punched a hole into your respective monitors. Ha, but I love you guys so I wouldn't do that to you. Or would I? Whatchu know about angst, haters?

Next time:

Chuck and Sarah go to a Motel.


	10. Chapter Nine

**An:**OMG is this an update from Shinyjayne19 that _didn't_take a month plus to post? Why yes, yes it is. So I stick my tongue at LittleCandyMan because I shall not be underestimated ever again! As I previously stated last chapter, this will be Charah fluff city. It actually made me quite sick at some points, like I somehow contracted diabetes 2. But never fear, as I found a shot of insulin and I'm all better. And yeah, I also split this chapter (AGAIN) because it got long and I like keeping most of these updates consistent. So sue me and my OCD.

Be sure to recognize that my buddy Aerox and I made sure to release updates for both of our stories relatively around the same time (Good Samaritan, READ IT!) so that we could effectively put most of the Chuck fanfiction community into a sugary coma.

Reviews make me happy. It's also sort of my 20th birthday on Wednesday (note: I'll try to get chapter 10 out on my bday or later that week) If that helps me get more feedback, then so be it! I demand a review or Zachary Levi delivered to my front doorstep!

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><p><strong>Chapter Nine<strong>

****February 18th, 2003

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><p>Everything is finally right in my little corner of the world. I couldn't be happier, more relieved. Chuck listened to his heart (his wonderfully amazing heart) and forgave me, even when he didn't have to. But he had and I won't let my second chance go to waste. It's like the air has been cleared between us. I can breathe without having to worry about finding myself drowned in guilt. For the first time since we met, Chuck and I are on the same page. There are no more secrets or lies left unspoken, which is different, but nice regardless. Everything is out in the open, thanks to our latest policy of absolute honesty. It's not like we can afford anything but the truth these days. So the newfound openness has caused a pleasant change in Chuck's formally brooding mood. He has returned to his talkative self, which I'd admit, has become wholly tiresome. Yes, I had initially told him that he may be privy to anything about me; whether it'd be past, present, or future. Although, I never expected for him to run with the idea and beat it with a dead horse.<p>

Chuck's version of 'Twenty Questions' is almost worse than being subjected to a polygraph test. Almost. There's hardly as much pressure to the equivalent of an interrogation, since the torture wanes on my patience rather than on my physical/mental endurance. We've been on the road for ten minutes or so, and he hasn't let up once. I suspect that Chuck is grilling me senselessly not just out of genuine curiosity, but also to serve as my punishment for previous deceitful behavior on my part. Fair enough. Why should I ruin his fun?

"Ok," says Chuck while reading off his notebook. Yes, he's definitely logging in each response like I am some sort of anomaly. "So far I know that your favorite color is purple, favorite food are cheeseburgers with extra pickles; you prefer dogs over cats, which is good considering I'm allergic to the latter, and you loathe olives...so moving on. Sarah: vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry ice cream?"

I'm perplexed on how Chuck has the choice to ask me whatever he pleases, yet he goes with the least probing questions ever. My likes and dislikes are by far the most boring aspects about me. Why couldn't he be more interested in perhaps say, my past spy conquests or exotic travels abroad?

I merely sigh. "None of the above. I prefer Rocky Road."

Chuck scribbles that down. "Living on the edge, huh?" Smiling, he looks up. "See, wasn't this a great idea?"

"This feels like an interrogation, Chuck," I remark dryly. "And why do you have to write it all down?" The corners of my lips curve into a teasing grin. "Are you planning on writing a song about my preferences of ice cream to serenade me with?"

"W—why would you ever think that?"

"Oh, well for one, that's your _special notebook_," I say using air quotes. "Which is filled with song lyrics and sheet music." From the corner of my eye, I see him shoot me a quizzical look. I shrug innocently. "You don't have to be a spy to be able to skim through an open book when your head is turned, Chuck."

Chuck cocks his head and briefly considers this. He nods mutely in agreement, taking the hint. Once he shuts the notebook and tosses it in the back seat, he concedes. "Aright, I get it. No more documenting the enigma that is Sarah Lisa Walker. We'll do it your way, Missy."

"Missy?"

His expression falters and a blush colors his face. "That came out...much lamer than I imagined."

"You get really flustered easily." I point out, amused. "Do I make you uncomfortable, or are you always like this around everybody?"

"Like what?"

"Like a retarded puppy."

Chuck hesitates, unsure how to retort to my backhanded compliment. He chooses his response both carefully and eloquently. "Hey, how do you know that my charming demeanor isn't merely a subtle form of manipulation, used to make people trust me implicitly, thereby enhancing my ability to effectively influence the outcome of any given situation?"

"I'm sure that'd make you a very ingenious sociopath."

"Ingenious, maybe. But sociopath? No, I'm sadly just naturally this adorable."

I find myself laughing heartily. "Right, you got me there. So by all means, continue with your interrogation, Mr. Bartowski."

"I'm kind of afraid to ask, but I never got a straight answer out of you before," starts Chuck, whose smile indicates otherwise. He ruffles his hair with a free hand, causing chocolate curls to rest messily over his forehead. For a moment, I divert my attention from the road ahead and nearly drive us into a ditch. I manage to correct my steering when he goes on. "What is your favorite band and or solo artist?"

That's seriously his big question?

"I don't have one."

His face suddenly is the epitome of seriousness. _I guess this does matter..._

"Sarah, you _have_to choose one."

"Um, alright." I think fast. "How about you?"

"That's cute, but no. I don't count."

I stop at a red light and turn to Chuck, tilting my head. "Why not? You can play the guitar really well, and your voice is amazing—which is the understatement of the century. I know my opinion doesn't count for anything when it comes to music, but you're my favorite."

Chuck seems to freeze up completely. His ears tinge scarlet as well as his face before blurting out. "I, uh, appreciate that...you know what? I think I asked you enough questions for today."

Traffic begins thinning out when the stoplight changes. I drive through the four-way intersection and turn right, scouring for a decent motel to crash for the remainder of the day. I continue making small talk. "Can I ask a few?"

He arches a brow in surprise. "Didn't I basically tell you my life story this past week?"

"So did I, at the diner." I argue evenly. "Besides, it'd only be fair if you get to be in the hot seat too."

"Fine," Chuck shrugs. "Hit me."

I start easy. "Favorite color?"

"Red."

"Food?"

He grins. "Pizza or sushi. Come on, Sarah, you can do better than this. Bring it on."

I fall silent for a solid thirty-seconds, deciding on a more thought provoking question. "If there was any place in the entire world you could visit, where would it be?"

Chuck ponders for a bit. "Would it be extremely cheesy if I said wherever you'd go?"

_Vintage Chuck, _I muse and shake my head, smiling despite the inferno that seems to have engulfed my face. "No, that's really sweet."

"It's true, however, if it is at all possible, I'd like to visit Paris and see the Eiffel Tower." The instant he finishes, Chuck snaps his mouth shut and winces. While he's berating himself, my mind has already returned to the night of my Red Test. I get a hold of myself when I hear him curse. "Crap, forget about Paris. You know, France is so overrated. Let's go to Greece! Greece...is awesome."

"Chuck, it's alright." I reassure him with weak smile. "Even though those memories are painful, nobody died. Besides, Paris led me to you, so its fine and I wouldn't mind going there again, to enjoy the sights for real."

He visibly calms down. "I'd like that, if you know, we ever find a way to shake off the CIA and this Clyde Decker douche..."

I purse my lips, annoyed by how the CIA seems to hang over us like dark, foreboding cloud. I know it's useless (not to mention stupid) to try and ignore that there are far bigger things at stake other than just us and our happiness. Our game of cat and mouse can only last for so long. Its Chuck's mentioning of Clyde Decker, or otherwise known by his codename, the Eraser, that forces me to switch gears to Agent Walker.

"How did you know about Decker anyway?" I ask, thinking back to our conversation with Agent Shaw. Shaw had called him the Eraser and yet Chuck somehow knew the spy's real identity.

"It's difficult to explain..." says Chuck honestly."I knew about Decker the same way I knew about Shaw, and how I was able to defend myself against that guy at the bonfire." His voice wavers with awe and a little fear. "The best way I can describe it is like, there's this blinding flash of light, and I suddenly gain insight to whatever triggered the information in the first place."

"It has to have something to do with those sunglasses," I say.

Chuck furrows his brows, puzzled. "What are you talking about?"

"The sunglasses I gave you on the train, they originally came from your dad. They were always meant for you. When you put them on..." I struggle to articulate what I had witnessed. "It's like you had a seizure and then passed out. There were these images flashes in the lens and it looked like you were hypnotized by them."

While he doesn't remember the incident ever occurring, Chuck lets this new information sink in. The car is silent for awhile. He massages his temples with a thumb and forefinger, then speaks. "I bet that's what's giving me these headaches. Whatever my dad did, its affecting my brain."

"Do you think its harming you enough to need medical attention?" I ask tensely.

"No," he says. "Not yet at least. So far I've had worse hangovers."

I force a smile. "The joys of being a college student."

He suddenly stares at me like I'm crazy. "Don't try and tell me that you haven't partied at Harvard!" It makes my head spin at how fast Chuck is able to drop and switch topics so effortlessly. He is stunned to find my face blank when I neither confirm nor deny his allegations. "No way...seriously? So what, did the CIA have a babysitter watching you 24/7 so you couldn't have some fun?"

I tap my fingers against the steering wheel and say. "Since I had been recruited by the Director of the CIA, I was assigned a handler to make sure I was under strict watch just in case I was to revert to my old "criminal" ways. His name was Ryker and he was...overbearing to the say the least. Long story short, no, I didn't party."

Chuck shakes his head in disbelief. "Well, that's going to have to change, Agent Walker." He winks, snapping his fingers when an idea strikes. He sports one of his famous Bartowski grins and there's an unnatural twinkle in his eye. I unconsciously squirm in my seat, not sure what to expect. "That's it! Sarah, I have a new mission for you. Or well, it's a joint effort, but basically, we're going to turn you into a real girl. I won't take no for an answer either!"

I find this wholly ridiculous, but Chuck looks adamant to prove me wrong. And he usually does. So I don't try to protest. Instead, I keep driving until we enter the nicer, more populated part of Santee. There, I see a motel in the distance. It's located nearby the banks of the San Diego River which flows from the northwestern mountain range and empties into the Pacific. After crossing a bridge with water sloshing beneath its arches, I automatically pull into the Motel 6 parking lot and kill the ignition. I mutter lowly. "Sounds like a suicide mission..."

Of course Chuck overhears me. He pats my hand reassuringly and lectures. "If you want to be a real girl, then you're gonna have to be more positive than that! Remember, it's a team effort. So I'll guide you to the light side of the force, young padawan."

I have no clue what a padawan is but if Chuck said it, it most likely has to do with a movie or comic book. I crack a smile. "Doesn't that sort of make you my Jiminy Cricket then?"

Chuck contemplates this, and then says with a straight face. "Yes, Pinocchio, that's exactly it. I am your conscience." His face breaks into a teasing grin when he pokes my nose, and leans forward to capture my lips with a soft kiss.

When we part, I think to myself. _Maybe it won't be so bad..._

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><p>As soon as we are assigned a room, Chuck and I make our trek down what he called a Shining-esque hallway that seemed to literally stretch for miles without a clear end in sight. I don't really understand the reference until Chuck practically spells it out for me. A pair of dead twin girls, and "Here's Johnny!" is all I needed to know to jog my memory of that terrifying film. So the longer we walk, the more I begin to wonder how bad it is going to be. My imagination runs wild with horrible thoughts of psycho killers and bedbugs until reaching the door marked <strong>19.<strong>

Chuck shoots me an apprehensive look before using our key (an actual bronze key with the room number scribbled on its tag) to open the door. It swings ajar and we step inside simultaneously.

Chuck looks around, then unceremoniously drops his backpack and guitar case on the floor. Meanwhile I grip the purse that's slung over my shoulder as I watch him fold his arms over his chest like he's an architect surveying a plot of land. A barren, fruitless plot of land with ugly blue/pink wallpaper and equally gaudy carpeting. Then of course, there's the single bed standing in the center of this atrocity. But Chuck merely gives a halfhearted shrug and begins unpacking without a word.

I raise a brow when sneaking a peak at what he brought—drinks, snacks, and clothes I literally forced upon him to buy—all piled snugly in his backpack. I remark teasingly. "You know we're only going to be here overnight, right?"

"It's better to be safe than sorry," Chuck replies, now with his trusty iPod in hand. He gives me a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "The bed's all yours tonight, by the way. I'll sleep in the bathtub, or on the floor...or something."

I shake my head decisively. "There is no way I'm letting you sleep on the floor. It's disgusting. We can share the bed."

"You don't mind?" He asks.

Rolling my eyes, I say. "I think we're long past the point of no return, Chuck. We slept together on the beach last night. If anything, the bed would be less awkward."

Chuck nods in affirmation, eyes sparkling faintly in the dim lighting. "Touché." He sets his backpack and guitar case on the table before running towards the bed where leaps onto the mattress with a triumphant bounce. He lies spread-eagled, stretching out his long limbs across the expanse of the bed's surface. His shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of his stomach. I stare blankly, entertaining the idea of relieving Chuck of his shirt entirely. But another thought rivals my libido and breaks me from my Chuck-induced trance.

I blush. "I was thinking..."

I hear Chuck yawn loudly. He lifts his head up, hair a disheveled mess as it obscures his large doe eyes. He smiles lazily, "Yes milady?"

"There's a Circle K across the street," I say. "I might go over there and get some extra stuff for the night. Do you need anything?"

He sits up and paws at his stubble with both hands. "Um yeah, my face is getting out of control. I should probably shave..."

I nod and try to hide my disappointment. I don't know why but the scruffy, roguish look works for Chuck. Really well, might I add. I'll be sad to see it go. "So an electric razor then?"

"Yeah, hey, should I come with?"

I shake my head. "It'd be safer if you probably stay here."

"Right...makes sense." Chuck mumbles, crestfallen. "You're not going to run off on me, are you?"

I blink. "Of course not!" My features soften when Chuck dips his head solemnly. "Hey, take a nap and I'll be back when you wake up."

Brown eyes regard me hopefully. I feel like if I stare too long, I'll be lost in his muddy depths indefinitely_._ "Promise?"

I nod, taking a seat at the edge of the bed and lift my hand up with a pinkie extended. I remember listening to Chuck assure his sister like this during one of their phone conversations. "Pinkie promise."

Chuck lowers his gaze onto my offer. He wordlessly reciprocates the gesture, and plants a kiss where our pinkies conjoin. He looks up to me and smiles warmly.

"I'm glad that we're ok again," he murmurs.

My reply is just as soft. "We're better than ok."

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><p>When I return from my quick jaunt to the convenience store, I find Chuck lying exactly in the same spot on the bed where I left him a half hour ago. Only now his clothes have changed into a pair of navy jeans, a crisp white t-shirt and of course, his converse shoes. His hair is darker than normal, damp and rumpled from a recent shower. The black headphones are once again strapped over his head like earmuffs; eyes closed and arms folded behind his head; he bops his foot to the rhythm of the music emanating from his iPod. I smile and before setting down my grocery bag, I do a double-take when I swear that the bed appears to be shaking like it's possessed.<p>

_This place really is haunted._I take a few cautious steps towards Chuck and realize I haven't been randomly thrust into a Stephen King novel. The bed is actually vibrating on its own accord. Furrowing my brows, I use my superior spy inference skills (insert sarcasm here) to locate a metallic box connected to the bedpost. It rattles and I steady my eyes to read the text: _**Magic Fingers Massage. Only $0.25 for five minutes of erotic pleasure!**_

I quirk an amused brow while trying to contain my laughter. Now Chuck's seemingly euphoric expression makes sense. I stand at the foot of the bed and watch him for awhile, noting the goofy smile stretching across his face and the gravelly hum that emits from his half-parted lips. I wonder what he's fantasizing of. Or who. But I feel like I'm invading his privacy in some sort of weird way just by ogling, so I decide to make my presence known. I clear my throat.

"Hey Chuck, I'm back." I say and expect for him to react. He doesn't and I add. "I was going to take a bath..."

I pause, slightly irked when there is still no response. Though when I listen intently, I can hear his music blaring from its speakers at full blast. How he hasn't gone deaf yet remains to be a mystery. Chuck is lost in another world; perfectly content as if he were the last living human in existence. I know I could always leave him alone and go about my business, but I can't pass such a tempting opportunity to have some fun. After all, Chuck _did_want me to start acting like a real girl and not a spy. This is something a real girl would do, I'm sure.

I smile wickedly when my plan takes form, channeling all the seduction skills that I posses as I climb on top of the bed. I proceed to crawl on my hands and knees until I'm practically looming above Chuck's unresponsive form. I bend forward and remove one headphone, mustering the sultriest voice I can manage. "Chuck..." I drawl and my warm breath ghosts his ear. He twitches. "I'm going to take a bath; don't you want to join me?"

As if on cue, Chuck's eyes fly open. He makes a girlish yelp once he finds me almost pressed against him. I continue to leer hotly and wink. Chuck now resembles something akin to a man dying from cardiac arrest; mouth hanging open, the two orbs he calls eyes are wide and glazed over. His reaction is priceless and suddenly my demeanor shifts and I burst out laughing, falling backwards onto my heels.

When Chuck realizes he's been played, he bolts upright and points an accusing finger at me. "Devil woman!" He shouts indignantly.

I am giggling uncontrollably. "I'm sorry—I couldn't resist—it's just that, you were enjoying that _way_too much."

"Well, what else am I supposed to do?" Chuck asks me in exasperation. "You got me on lockdown and I can't leave the room because supposedly, the CIA is going to be standing out in the hallway, just waiting for me to slip up. I'm bored out of my mind!" He mumbles petulantly. "And besides, they don't even have a N64 console hooked up to the TV, and all of the channels are either static or porn."

"You know that we can't risk you going out alone," I remind him.

Chuck protests. "But I wouldn't be alone if I'm with you! Unless I'm just a burden to you if I'm out in public..."

"You're not a burden, Chuck," I tell him sincerely and stretch up and lay my lips on his damp cheek. I inhale the scent of him, fresh but faintly soapy from his shower. He wears a trace of minty shampoo that causes me to shudder in delight. After a moment, I reach to circle his neck with my arms. "I'm only doing what's best for you, to keep you out of harm's way."

"I know, but I'd like to think that we're stronger together than apart."

I sigh and begin to stroke his curls. "You're right, and I'm sorry for leaving you behind like that. I mean, what if the CIA decided to ambush the room while I was gone?" My face twists into anguish when I consider the many plausible what-ifs. "Oh my god, that was so stupid of me!"

Before I can freak out, Chuck brings me into a hug. My face buried into the crook of his shoulder. I hear him telling me. "Hey, it's ok. I'm fine. You didn't mess up. No harm, no foul."

I mumble pitifully. "I...just wanted to help you the best way I can."

He plants a kiss on top of my head, saying. "I know and I don't think a simple 'thank-you' will ever be enough to fully convey how grateful I am for having you by my side."

I pull back and smile timidly. "Really?"

His eyes drop to my lips and he whispers a breathy, "really," before cupping my face and bringing my lips crashing against his. Our kiss quickly escalates and when it deepens, I unconsciously part my mouth wider to let his tongue inside. He explores and pushes the boundaries of our intimacy further than it's ever gone. I moan, realizing that I've never been kissed like this before. It goes on and I swear that the whole world is involved in this kiss. Chuck rests his palms on my hips and eagerly pushes me forward; bodies pressed firmly and deliciously, together. I can feel my breathing speeding up, and I begin to want other things to happen. I'm on fire but the instant I feel his hand brush ever so lightly over the valley of my breasts, I resist. It triggers a warning alarm to sound off in my brain, and suddenly I pull back from Chuck like I had burned myself.

There is a _ding _and the bed's vibrations ceases. Chuck watches confusedly as I scramble hastily from the space we shared, creating a safe distance between us. "I...need to take a bath," I say, voice quivering.

He merely nods. "Right..."

I turn on my heel and bend over to quickly reclaim my grocery bag, almost spilling the contents in my haste. I mentally curse, pausing briefly to overhear as Chuck flops onto bed with a loud sigh. He mutters under his breath, "Darn it, out of quarters." His voice sounds so absolutely lost that it causes a violent pang in my chest.

He has no clue how this is affecting me. What once started purely as a defense mechanism has now become a nuisance. Hell, more than a nuisance. It's become a full blown disability. I feel like screaming, stomping around like a child throwing a tantrum, the whole nine yards. But all those emotions—the anger, the frustration, and god, the disappointment, remain beneath the surface until I hightail it inside the bathroom and slam the door with all my might.

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><p><strong>An:<strong>You know how some people like hurting the ones they love? I'm just like that. So yeah, I divided the chapter into two again. Expect chapter 10 out relatively soon as it's almost written completely. Also, guess how many awesome references I decided to put in! Because there a lot. ;)

Unexpected revelations and steamy Charah scenes coming down the pipeline along with a cliffhanger.

Let's also play my favorite game: What is wrong with Sarah Walker now? The reviewer who guesses right gets a shout-out (save for Aerox but that cheeky bastard already knows) and cookies!


	11. Chapter Ten

**An:**To my American readers, hope you guys had an awesome Thanksgiving/Black Friday. To everyone else, well, hope you had a good week. Mine was pretty decent. I turned twenty years old on Wednesday. I also got sick thanks to my boyfriend. Um, I ate a lot of food on T-day. Watched my beloved 49ers get dominated by the Ravens. Boo. Then today I went shopping and used up all of my birthday money on clothes! Oh and I also found the time to update! ;)

I'd like to thank **Aerox**for being an awesome beta—taking care of my shitty grammar/spelling mistakes and helping me with certain aspects of the chapter. He also was up till like 6:30am his time aka 20 hours plus apparently. So yeah, I treat my betas like slaves. I demand results!

Reviews are like bacon strips. You can never have enough of it. EVER.

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><p><strong>Chapter Ten<strong>

February 18th, 2003

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><p><strong>F<strong>or the time it takes to run the bathwater and fill the tub to an appropriate level, I keep busy inside my head. I try to convince myself that Chuck is not some mark that I have to extract information out of. This is not a mission anymore. It shouldn't be difficult to separate who I was from who I am and aim to be. But I feel conflicted; torn into two. Old habits die hard I suppose, and I will always resort to relying on my spy-self until I'm comfortable enough to move forward. My heart yearns to break away, while my instincts refute the change altogether. It's cognitive dissonance at its best.

So I need that extra push in the right direction. Chuck said I am going to be a "real girl." Therefore he'll be my proverbial push. He's driving me to the light, to a possible future where I can be romantically involved without trepidation or fear that it's a sham. I want that so desperately. I want to be in an intimate relationship—one that actually values the consent of both parties and is founded upon love, trust, and affection. I've been dreaming about this moment for all my life, to be finally normal. I have found somebody I truly care about. Chuck respects me, tolerates my unconventional past, and accepts me for whoever I am. He is the best thing that has ever happened to me; practically perfect in my eyes. He has singlehandedly gotten me to lower my guard, and to just let go of everything…

Everything of course, but this.

I quit my endless pacing and take a seat at the edge of the tub. I cross my legs and my knee bobs up and down compulsively. My anxiety has intensified and it's impossible to remain still. I sigh, making an exasperated grab for the grocery bag that currently sits below my feet. I blindly rummage through its contents until retrieving a small plastic baggy filled with lavender-scented salts. I read the label; apparently it'll give my bath a soothing effect, and the idea of optimal relaxation sounds nice enough. So I sprinkle a handful of the purple crystals into the water, inhaling the flowery smell that perfumes the entire room. A little bit longer and the steaming bathtub awaits me.

I undress in silent contempt. Shedding the clothes I've worn for two days too long, and lowering myself slowly into the silky water. I hiss when the heat rises and attacks my aching muscles, seeping in between grime infested pores till my bones have gone limp entirely. For once the feeling of surrender is wholly welcomed. I calmly rest my head on a cloth and try to get a grip on things.

When I shut my eyes, I expect darkness accompanied by some semblance of peace of mind. But I find none of that. Instead, my brain is hard at work despite conscious protests to hush up. It doesn't help matters that I can still taste Chuck on my lips. Or that all I see behind my closed eyelids is of Chuck hovering above me. I can almost feel him touching me as he had before we stopped. Before _I_ stopped him.

Dammit.

I slide further into the water, letting it block out most of the external noise. There's the subtle humming of the fluid surrounding me, no faint murmurings of Chuck, because even listening to his voice will just make this—whatever_ this _is—worse. So I can hear only my own steady breathing and my overcrowded musings. All of which are Chuck-orientated. Every single one of them involves him somehow. Great. As I float on my back, I think about Chuck because what else is there to concentrate on? The CIA? Orion? Humanity's endeavor for achieving world peace? Yeah, right. Everyone has their obsessions. Consuming thoughts, and for now, mine are all Chuck, Chuck, Chuck….

I just can't get him out of my head.

But while I do stick to my Chuck for awhile, my thoughts eventually divert. Not quite abandoning the problematic notion as to why I am suddenly so hot and bothered by a kiss, some tongue, and the quick cop of my breasts. That was the standard procedure during most of my seduction missions, though it was as far as it ever got. Yes, Seduction school taught me well. Very well. Never did I drop to my knees or shed a single article of clothing. Just a few flirty remarks and provocative gesticulations and it was more than enough to get what I wanted. That's why I was the best.

That's why I am such a mess right now.

You see, little Samantha Westen knew about a lot of things. She could count cards, play injured, hot wire a car and con with the best of them. Yet she did not know what sex was. That, she supposed, was one of the many consequences of running away with her daddy when mommy would've told her everything had she stayed. Years later, Jenny Burton was caught in the same predicament. Only this time, she knew exactly what intercourse was, thanks to Sex Ed in health class. But no amount of knowledge could save her from four years of perpetual loneliness. She had never been kissed. So this led to Agent Walker, who wasn't allowed near a Sorority or school function during her entire education at Harvard. She had been isolated from any social setting that didn't have something to do with espionage. This gave her time to perfect the art of being the perfect spy. And since she was a bit too good at her job, she never made it past second base. Whenever intimacy became a factor, it was always for assignment's sake, not her own. Business trumped pleasure every single time.

Until now.

I'm so used to relying on protocols dictating what I can and cannot do that the concept of free will seriously freaks me out. Especially when I've been held back by restrictions for most my life. It's overwhelming to say the least. So naturally I have the right to be frightened. This is foreign territory and Chuck is the unknown. He is the experienced one while I'm hanging by a thread. Which begs the question: How on earth am I supposed to be able to tell him the truth behind my painfully abrupt exit?

There is no way to be casual about it. I can't just approach Chuck and say that I am—

Fuck! It's even hard to admit it inside the solace of my own mind.

I am…a virgin.

There, I said it.

So if I _do_decide to tell Chuck about my not-so dirty little secret (and according to our honesty policy, I'm obligated to) how will he react?

I can see it now. He'll either laugh or pity me, or perhaps accuse me of lying. Because really, a girl of my caliber _must _be known for getting around. For being easy. But that's not it at all. The CIA never whored me out like I was some call girl working for their private brothel service. Anyone who'd believe that is delusional. The CIA respects their agents on most occasions. Though they had treated me like a doll in a glass house, therefore also inadvertently preserving my sexual purity. It's weird how things work out sometimes. I'm twenty-two and wound tighter than a prepubescent teenage boy.

With another sigh, I fall until I'm completely submerged beneath the murky water. Beneath the foamy surface, I briefly consider drowning myself in embarrassment. I've never been so good with handling humility anyways. But the deranged thought passes suddenly when even underwater I can hear the sound of Chuck's voice. There is really no escaping him is there? He is shouting, but it sounds garbled since my ears are clogged with fluid.

Yet I have a haunch that he's probably calling my name.

"SARAH!"

Yep.

There's a knock at the door. It sounds like the percussion of a drum; its persistence alarming. So thinking there must be something wrong, I resurface, nearly coughing up a mouthful of soapy water in result of my haste. The banging ceases and the door creaks ajar. Chuck peaks inside with a hand covering his eyes. I act quickly; scooping mounds of suds to conceal my very nude body.

I roll my eyes. _Of course I forgot to lock the door._

"Chuck," I say with a touch of worry in my tone. "What's wrong?"

He shifts uncomfortably, the blush creeping onto his face already evident. It's obviously a false alarm. "I was just going to ask if you had any extra quarters," he mumbles sheepishly. "But it's ok, you're busy and I feel like this probably could've waited..."

For an instant, I wonder if that's the real reason why he intruded on me. But then I remember that it's Chuck. It's not in his nature to be a perv. So I throw my original assumption out. He may be a red-blooded male, but he also is the biggest sweetheart who would rather claw out his eyes before disrespecting a woman's privacy.

"I have some leftover change in my wallet." I tell him, smiling at the sheer absurdity of the situation. "It's in my purse sitting on the nightstand."

He nods and spreads his fingers apart slightly. There's a sliver of his brown eyes regarding me with a kindly gaze. He holds his stare for a beat; my lower half squirming below the soapy surface. "Thank you, Sarah. I owe you."

"I—It is not a big deal," I stammer awkwardly. "You don't owe me anything."

Chuck frowns at the unevenness in my tone. He still has got no clue what he does to me. The effect he has is much like a dizzy spell. My head is constantly spinning, losing control. Yet he remains oblivious. He simply tilts his head in that innocent fashion before registering my discomfort. His eyes widen double their original size and he becomes flustered as well.

"Um, well you ought to give it a try," Chuck offers, tripping over his tongue. "The Magic Fingers, I mean. They really _are_ magic and…" He gives a nervous laugh and doesn't finish. Instead, he covers his face and blindly bolts out the door. It slams shut and I blink, beyond confused.

_Well, that was unexpected,_I think, and my body twinges a little from the excitement of Chuck bursting in on me. It feels like I've been struck by a thunderbolt and I'm suddenly on fire again. The arousal intensifies and threatens to burst so I wordlessly sink to the bottom of the bathtub like a stone as if to douse the flames.

This cannot be a sane reaction.

* * *

><p>My body shudders and I jerk awake. The intense visual of Chuck's eyes boring into mine as we move together in perfect rhythm; our laughter filling the bedroom, disappears into the recess of my mind. It takes a moment to come to, my eyes parting slowly until realizing that I've been soaking in the bathtub for almost an hour. I must've dozed off at some point after Chuck's intrusion. The water is cold. Well below room temperature. I'm surprised there aren't any mini icebergs floating around the tub. My skin is wrinkly with a bluish tinge to it. I feel like a human prune, which is reason enough to get out.<p>

After lifting myself out of the tub, I dry off. With a towel wrapped around my naked form, another is wringing out the excess wetness from my hair. Before nodding off earlier, I had used the hair dye remover I bought at the convenience store. Now hanging over the sink, the cheap brown dye drips from the roots to the tips of my hair and circles the drain. I glance at the mirror as I finish up with the application, finding that my hair has mostly returned to its original color. My blonde mane rest upon my shoulders and I tilt my head to the side, judging my restored appearance. I am almost my old self again—Agent Walker, but not. The length of my hair is shorter and curlier still. My blue-grey eyes that once were steely and dispassionate now are vibrant, lively. They are wild as hurricanes. Overall, I'm satisfied with the new me. I just hope that Chuck likes her too.

I decide that make-up isn't necessary. Too much of it made me feel unrecognizable. I never was the kind of girl who relied on cosmetics with the exception, of course, for when a mission asked for it. Since it's my choice, I end up going for that conservative, natural look. So I apply minimal foundation, mascara, and lip gloss followed by tying my hair into a messy ponytail; wearing jeans, a white tank-top and purple hoodie ensemble. For once, I look my age.

Smiling, I go to pick up my pile of sullied clothes. I consider briefly of just getting rid of them altogether. They've outworn their use. Besides, it wasn't me. I'll never wear it again. So I gather the articles of clothing in my arms, bunching them together until a crumpled piece of paper slips from the mound and drops to the tiled floor. I raise a brow, curiously bending forward to pick it up.

It's the napkin that Orion had given me in Italy. It's wrinkled and faded. 1 or 11 stares back up at me mockingly. I almost throw it away along with the clothes, but find it could come of some use later on. I keep forcing myself to believe that Orion has a plan in the works. So I hope this can be a part of it. Maybe it's the key to getting into contact with him via the scrambled phone courtesy of Agent Shaw? Or would Chuck know, if I were to show him the numbers? Conflicted, I choose to keep it, stuffing the note in my pocket while I toss the rest into the empty trash bin.

When I exit the bathroom moments later, I find Chuck sitting on the bed (has he moved an inch?) staring blankly at the television. He has the remote in hand, flipping the channels with the same look of disinterest. I cross in front of the TV, hopefully to alleviate his boredom somewhat.

"So, what do you think?" I ask, gesturing to myself.

He regards me without blinking. A minute passes without an answer, and I roll my eyes inwardly. _Typical guy._"You dyed your hair," he replies matter-a-factly.

_Well at least he noticed there was a difference,_ I think wryly. _That's something at least._I shake my head. "Nope, I rinsed the dye out. I felt like if I was going to be a "real girl" like you insinuated, I should change my appearance back to how it used to be. Besides, the CIA knows my face and a simple change of hair color wouldn't be life or death. So…" To properly show my enthusiasm, I add. "Tada!"

Chuck sits up, cross-legged. He inquires. "Can I be perfectly honest with you?"

_Oh no, he prefers brunettes,_I cringe but keep my poker face intact. _Be open to criticism_, I instruct myself. I say neutrally. "Yeah, what's up?"

"I hated you as a brunette."

Relief washes over me and the corners of my lips begin to twitch into an easy smile. Then a little part of me, however, is irked by his bluntness. So I narrow my eyes and put my hands on either side of my waist instead. "Why?"

He just shrugs. "It didn't suit you."

"And this does?"

"Well, you do seem to look and feel a lot more comfortable in your own skin now," Chuck explains readily. He seems to be quite relaxed. "You always seemed to act out of place when we met, and I just thought I wasn't the only one with low self-esteem. It makes sense that you sort of lost your identity looking how you did. So yeah, it suits you because it _is_ you."

It's not very often that I am rendered speechless. I guess that's part of Chuck's charm; to leave me dazed and confused on frequent occasion. I'm sure he doesn't recognize the impact of what he said, or how he manages to put things into perspective so easily. He's got a gift for words when he's not rambling nonsensically of course. Smiling, I lean over the bed and reward him with a peck on the cheek.

When I pull away, he stares at me with confusion evident in his face. He must think I'm bipolar with all the mixed signals I've been giving him. My behavior has been rather erratic. I'm hot and cold with no room in between the extremes. I want to express more with Chuck, to feel more with him, but fear is stopping me from taking the plunge. It's tough to overcome a faceless enemy. Especially when it cripples a person worse than if they had been shot or stabbed.

I try to disregard the look Chuck gives me and pick up my purse sitting on the nightstand instead. I feel his eyes on me still as I fish for the phone Orion entrusted me with. Once I have it, I take a seat beside Chuck, avoiding his gaze while examining it. He scoots closer to me, as if to test the waters. When I don't retreat, he closes the gap between us, resting his chin on my shoulder with one of his arms snaked around my waist in a lazy half-embrace.

"I already took a look at it after you left shopping," he informs me, to my mild surprise. "The phone came with no previous numbers logged in, and there's been no account of any voicemails or missed calls yet. It's totally unused."

"That's strange," I say, brows furrowed. "Maybe your dad has our phone number and will contact us that way?" At this point, I'm just grasping at straws now.

"If that's true, then why hasn't he tried calling us yet?"

My frown deepens. "I don't know…I hate puzzles."

"See, as a nerd, puzzles and mind-games are my forte," says Chuck, annoyed. "Which is why this is so frustrating for me, I mean, my dad was always eccentric, but this takes the cake as the most cryptically vague thing he's ever done."

I nod, thinking about the napkin that currently rests in my jean pocket. I wonder. "It's a long shot but I may have something that might work…" I trail off and by memory; punch the numbers '111' into the phone before hitting send. We both wait for something to happen, but after a few beats, nothing does.

After a few seconds has gone by, Chuck sits up all of a sudden. He shoots me a quizzical look before asking. "Triple ones? Where did you come up with that?"

"Your dad told me to remember a code," I say while nibbling on my bottom lip in contemplation. "It was 1 or 11. I thought that maybe...it had to do with contacting him or something." I shrug in defeat. "What else could it mean?"

I turn to Chuck, expecting him to offer his reassurance. But he's already off in his own world, looking pensive as he stares down the phone resting in my open palm. I can see the wheels in his brain turning, the flickering of his eyes as the pupils grow huge as though he had a startling realization.

"I think you were taking it too literally," he mutters slowly. "1 or 11 has a double meaning; they're both values of an ace in Black Jack. Ace is the key word here. My dad used to say something to me when I was young, "Aces, Charles." Here," Chuck takes the phone. "Maybe this will work…" He inputs the message and hits the send button. We wait again until there is a beep.

"Is…it ringing?" I ask, amazed.

"No, but something is happening."

It beeps again and then a scroll of letters pops up on the display screen, rearranging themselves to spell out two words: Tracking Initiated. Chuck and I exchange apprehensive looks.

"Sarah," says Chuck with uncertainty. "You're the former spy. What does that mean?"

"The phone is scrambled so no one can trace the call," I hear my voice explain faintly. "But I'm sure if we enabled it, Orion could be bale to bypass the encryption process and pinpoint our location."

"So basically what you're saying is that, he can find us?"

"Yes," I say. There is impatience bubbling to the surface and my voice rises slightly. "But this doesn't make any sense!"

Chuck places a comforting hand on the curve of my neck. He rubs the muscles bundled tensely together until his touch starts to heal me, and I calm down. "How doesn't it make sense, Sarah?" He asks neutrally.

"Your dad made it abundantly clear that I should keep my identity a secret from you," I state with an edge. "But I would never have been able to figure out the meaning of 1 or 11 on my own. Why would he make a puzzle like that tailored specifically for you if he never intended you to find out in the first place?"

"My dad works in mysterious ways," says Chuck sighing. "He probably knew it was only a matter of time before the cat was out of the bag. Bartowskis, after all, find trouble. Not exactly the other way around." He studies the phone for a second longer than uses his long reach to place the device back onto the nightstand.

I track his languid movement solely with my eyes, not wanting to drop the subject, but rather delve deeper. But Chuck makes sure that once the phone is out of my reach, he brings the same hand to my face, preventing me from making my move. He caresses my cheek softly and I begin to feel my frustrations ebb away. I resign to his touch and lean into his palm.

"What are we supposed to do now?" I murmur.

I hear him chuckle, "says the spy to the civilian."

"I'm serious," I retort lamely. "If that's a tracking device that means your dad knows exactly where we are. He might be coming to rendezvous with us."

Chuck doesn't miss a beat. "Then let's just hang out here," he suggests. "That was the original plan anyways, wasn't it? If he calls, we'll answer it and go from there. If not, we just pack up and head back on the road again tomorrow."

I lift my head up and give his palm a wet kiss before my eyes find his. "You know, you'd be a really good spy."

"In some alternate universe, maybe," he jokes then comments more seriously. "But I can't imagine ever sacrificing myself to be that kind of person."

I believe him. "Running away was the best mistake of my life," I admit softly.

He smiles and nods. "Well yeah, otherwise we would have never met."

"I don't think like that," I say thoughtfully. It's unusual for me to get so philosophical about things as I'm not much of a deep-thinker, but I continue nonetheless. "You said it yourself, Chuck. This was fate for us to meet, so somewhere down the line in your alternate universe; I bet we would've crossed paths somewhere."

Chuck tilts his head in consideration, features softening. "It was sort of inevitable, huh?" He remarks short of a whisper, "You and me."

"I'd say so."

He reads my face, seemingly willing me to stare into his eyes. I do and find myself falling hopelessly into his muddy, inviting depths. My breath shortens when he once again takes his silent cue to dip his head and grazes his lips across mine. I shiver and Chuck smiles, his arms holding me steady with one wrapped around my waist, and the other with its palm pressed on the small of my back. He lowers me gently on the bed. Our cheeks brush, his stubble tickling my smooth skin. My giggles turn into a soft moan when Chuck leaves a trail of kisses from my lips down to my neck. Meanwhile his hands roam, never idle, sliding underneath my hoodie and tank-top. I feel his gentle hands wander the curvatures of my figure, then settle on the surface of my taut stomach. That hot feeling of excitement and fear overwhelms me like before and I squirm, trying to fight it from taking control. Just as Chuck's hand starts to travel south of my bellybutton, I close my eyes and murmur. "Wait…Chuck, stop."

He doesn't seem to hear me so I repeat, my tone pleading. "Chuck, please…stop."

This time he loosens his grip immediately. I hear him sigh and he rolls off me and lies flat on the empty side of the bed. He cranes his neck and stares up at me. His eyes are hot at first, practically smoldering, but then they quickly grow dim with concern. "Sarah, what am I doing wrong? Did I scare you, hurt you? Do you feel like I'm pressuring you? Because if you're not ready to go further, that's perfectly fine with me. I just need you to be frank with me. I can't read your mind."

"It's none of that," I say anxiously. I feel the blood surge up into my cheeks. "It's just…"

"Just what?"

"You won't believe me," I say.

Try me, his expression implies. He doesn't move and inch and if anything, he appear a lot more earnest for my response. And I bet Chuck secretly knows that I can't ever say no to those chocolate brown eyes.

I relent, mumbling. "I've never exactly done this before."

"What, be in a relationship?" He asks, sounding no more than curious.

"Well that," I start nervously. I imagine how horribly embarrassed I must look to Chuck, but at least I'm sincere in my shame. I stumble over my words. "I am, um, I haven't hit... a home run."

There is a moment of awkward silence when neither of us speaks. I silently gauge Chuck for a reaction with the hopes he'll refrain from showing disgust or mirth. His face is blank for awhile, and I don't begin to worry until I can tell from the compression of his lips that he is trying not to smile.

Chuck says. "So, you're a virgin."

I nod. "Yes."

"Was that a personal decision, or…?"

_Here it goes_. With a sigh, I begin. "Yes and no. I told you that I traveled a lot with my father due to the…nature of his job. Well, wherever we'd go, there was no time to really settle down. So I wasn't very social and did not try to date in high school. My first kiss didn't happen until after I joined the CIA. Even then, it was sort of forced upon me, to fulfill the minimal requirements that I'd need to be able to go on missions that entailed seducing a mark." I pause for a breath and glance at Chuck. He currently rests on his side, eyes fixed onto me, listening intently. I go on. "While I was trained to effectively seduce my target, there was hardly any seduction involved on these assignments. I'd act the part of course. Pretend to be interested, flirt. It'd only escalate as far as making out, and by then I would've already gotten what I wanted. So to properly answer your question, I guess sex never entered the equation."

Chuck stares at me, wide-eyed. "What a relief."

"What?"

"This is the greatest news ever!" He exclaims, bolting upright with a smile that brightens the entire room. "I mean, I was over here sweating bullets this whole time, thinking to myself that I wasn't good enough for you." At my confused stare, he elaborates. "You're a perfect ten, Sarah, and I'm a joke in my own mind. Girls—excuse me; _women_like you are one in a million. Usually guys like me can't compete, especially since you were are spy and all. I thought since you had lived this adventurous lifestyle, traveling the world to these exotic places and whatnot, that you met other guys whose appearance and, um, expertise, blows mine out of the water."

When he finishes, I can't help but to burst out laughing. "You should've seen what I looked like in high school before my CIA makeover. You say right now I'm a ten? Back then I barely could scrape a five." My eyes are wet with happy tears. I wipe them away and school my features to where I am perfectly sincere. "You are no joke, Chuck." I tell him softly. "You're handsome, smart, funny, kind, and all of the above. It's true. I've met other men, because they do exist outside of this motel room, and yes, they tried to seduce their way into my pants, but it didn't work. I felt like I was losing myself to the spy-life, and my last attempt was to keep something for myself, something that nobody could take away from me. I didn't feel it was necessary to "lose it";" I say using finger quotes, "to a random mark or on a one night stand. I think…" I smile shyly. "I was waiting for you, Chuck."

The seriousness of our talk suddenly returns the instant I let those poignant words tumble out of my mouth. I am not laughing and neither is Chuck. I think we're both letting what I said, register. Meanwhile I notice that Chuck is awfully close to me. I can practically feel the heat radiate off his skin, the electricity crackling like fireworks between us. Slowly, so I can see it coming, he reaches over and takes my hand. He strokes his thumb lightly over my knuckles, and then his big doe eyes gaze up at me adoringly.

"I wish I had gotten the memo to save myself," He half-jokes. "It would've saved me a lot of heartache." The name Jill immediately pops into my head and I scowl. My blood boils and all of my distaste for that fair-weather ex-girlfriend of his, who had broken his heart at the worst time imaginable, reaches new heights. Chuck didn't deserve any of her treachery. He deserves better, if not the absolute best. I may not be either of those, but I know I'm better than Jill. I just hope that my loyalty is enough. Chuck has given me so much already, the least I can do is prove that I am worthy of his love. I've never been so determined in my life. There is a fire burning in my eyes now. Chuck notices the passion and smiles just as radiantly as ever. He goes on. "Sarah Walker, I would be honored to be your first. But only if you feel ready."

I take a deep breath. "I am ready."

He chuckles lowly. "Are you sure? I heard for girls this is kind of a big deal, some just don't have the emotional maturity to handle something like this…"

I know if Chuck tries to dissuade me any longer, he might succeed. He is testing my resolve, but delaying the inevitable too. It's at this moment that I decide that I don't want to submit to my fears anymore. There's no room for indecisiveness in life. For the first time, I know what I want. And what I really want is Chuck. All of him. Now.

So I grab Chuck by his shirt while he is in mid-ramble, and drag him to where we collide. My lips find his and attack before he can say another word. His coherence turns into a surprisingly loud groan that makes my kisses that much fiercer. He sweeps his tongue slowly across my parted lips, and when I sigh happily, his arms come around me. They cross over my back and pull me into his heaving chest. And that's when I can feel what his body is saying, and what its saying is something very simple. He lifts me up into his lap with surprising ease. My legs instinctively wrap around his lower back, bringing us even closer with our mouths glued together still. I drape my arms over his shoulders to deepen the kiss. It goes on and on, but after a while Chuck settles into a rhythm with his tongue, the same rhythm I learned during my seduction training. My hoodie is the first thing to go. Chuck unzips it and tosses it blindly to the side. I pay no attention to where it lands because our movements are too frantic to keep track of anything but ourselves. My hands begin to run through his hair helplessly, grasping the curls when I feel Chuck's mouth on the nape of my neck. His lips move to my ear, and he catches the lobe of it between his teeth. Then his tongue darts in. I gasp aloud.

He whispers. "That's a yes I'm guessing?"

I pull back from him sluggishly. My entire face is flushed bright red. My eyes, like his, are heavy-lidded and hungry. Most of my hair has come out of its ponytail, which only adds to my overall flustered appearance. I am panting too hard to retort with a witty comeback so I give him a pointed look that basically says, no shit Sherlock.

"Awesome," says Chuck with a nod. Before picking up where we left off, he reaches a hand into his back pocket. He shows me his wallet, waving it around like it's the Holy Grail or something. "Remember that Kevin guy who invited us to the bonfire? Well, he gave me this for such an occasion." He presents a tiny square packet. A condom.

I rack my memory for a minute, remembering the kid who I thought was hitting on me throughout the entire night. Kevin had been a little too friendly and even Chuck showed signs of protectiveness for each failed pick-up line the other boy used, or blatant questioning about my love life. He of all people, gave Chuck a condom? I snort in disbelief.

Chuck smiles. "After I gave that performance, Kevin told me that I'd need this. Who knew, right?"

I shake my head, muttering. "Wow."

He says jokingly. "Talk about a college frat boy's intuition."

His constant stalling—while I do appreciate having some form of contraceptive—is making me restless for action. I take notice to how perfectly I seem to fit in Chuck's lap with my legs locked around him. When I shift my lower half in impatience, Chuck hisses at the unexpected friction. It sends pleasant shivers throughout me when his hot, smoldering look returns. At least my talents did not go to waste.

"Call it what you want." I purposefully drawl in a sultry tone, sure that I have all of Chuck's undivided attention. My fingers tangle into his curls, my mouth on his. "But we're done talking, hmm?"

I stare expectantly at Chuck. His eyes are so dark and inviting and he doesn't say a word. He merely nods. His hands slowly trail down my sides till they settle on my hips, holding me in place all the while our lips remain centimeters apart. We kiss again; tenderly at first and it goes on slow and sweet until Chuck lays me back onto the bed. Somehow he manages to unbutton my jeans without me knowing it, and I shuck them off hastily as he continues kissing me, leaving a fiery trail from my bruised lips down to my heart.

And then before he can work on relieving me of my underwear, I hear myself speak. I sound so tiny, so young. "Chuck, I don't want to disappoint you."

"That's not possible," he whispers.

Frowning, I arch my back and he tugs the boy-shorts halfway off my waist. "I don't know much," I confess. My voice is barely audible. "I'm all talk and—"

"I don't care." His hands drift over me, touching me in places where I jerk with surprise. "Just try and relax. I'll do the rest." At this point, I'll need to be put on a morphine drip before I can relax. But I don't tell Chuck this. Instead I stay quiet. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe deep and slow. Just like how my training dictates.

I watch Chuck resume his work. Though I am getting great pleasure from the kisses and nips at my bare skin, I feel my embarrassment kick in as he draws my undershorts down over my legs and toss it to the floor. My legs automatically clench under Chuck's scrutiny. His eyes look at my almost naked body as if it were a drink of water on a desert dune. Nobody has ever looked at me like this before. So I tense and squirm, feeling a weird and foreign sensation build deeper inside of me. But I don't fight the urge. I open myself up to him.

Chuck kisses my inner thigh before glancing upward. "You are so beautiful, Sarah," he professes in his hushed tone. At that moment I feel all my fears just melt away. I want to answer him back with something equally meaningful, or sentimental. But Chuck has other plans and he descends further. Down and down; all conscious thought is totally obliterated.

* * *

><p>I lie half-asleep on the bed, tangled in the linens with Chuck snoring beside me. The time isn't important. Maybe it's midnight or late afternoon. I can't be sure. The blinds are closed so no increments of light can leak inside the room. It leaves everything soothingly dark. The ceiling fan rotates above us, circulating air to breathe life back into our cooling bodies. Chuck holds me cradled against his bare chest. His face is buried into my shoulder, and I pass the seconds by watching the silhouettes parade across the walls. Every so often I tremble with little aftershocks.<p>

I smile. I will never forget this; his taste and smell, or the feeling of him inside me this first time—my first time, ever—I will never forget the way in which he moved in earnest and the pleasure that followed.

Chuck stirs. I feel him rustle, heaving a great big yawn. He props on an elbow, his free hand sliding over my naked flesh. He settles his palm flat on my stomach, slurring sleepily. "So, was that up to your expectations…?"

I really have nothing to say. The most profound description of my innermost desires realized cannot even compare to what Chuck and I did together. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"...Too tired," is my excuse.

"I'll take your exhaustion as a positive sign then." He bends over to kiss me on the cheek. I am still very sensitive and so his slightest touch has me shivering all over. Then he releases me from our joint embrace before abandoning the bed altogether. I flip over to my other side and watch warily as he gets dressed.

"Where are you going?" I ask.

"It's a surprise," he tells me, winking. "I'll be right back."

I distinctly remember telling Chuck at some point that I absolutely loathe surprises. But as of right now, I'm too drained and giddy to remind him of that fact. So I mumble instead, "Does that mean more sex?"

He chuckles. "Whatever you want, baby."

I nod contentedly. After Chuck leaves the motel room, I start to drift off again. I don't ever fully fall asleep this time, though I keep my eyes closed and I do daydream. Or rather, reflect. Then out of nowhere, my blissful happiness seems to screech to a halt.

Chuck is gone.

He just left without me.

Oh, fuck.

My eyes snap open and suddenly I am wide awake. I bolt upright, frazzled and in complete disarray. I search the darkened room and realize that I hadn't been imagining Chuck's departure. He really is gone. Now I slip into Agent-mode. I become totally focused on locating Chuck and dragging his ass back to the safety of me and this bed, hopefully in one piece. Just as I am about to scramble to recover my clothes, I hear the door unlock. It creaks ajar and I let out a breath of relief.

He's back.

_Crisis averted_, my brain cheers.

Nope. Things are about to get a lot worse. My blood runs cold when not one, but four shadowy figures emerge inside the room. They enter with stealth and even their footfalls are deathly silent. If I was sound asleep, they could've killed me with ease. Luckily being a spy is a lot like riding a bike. You never truly forget. So I listen to my instincts; feigning sleep while sneaking furtive glances to the mirror hanging on the wall adjacent to me. There's the reflection of the four intruders. One of them is probably Chuck. I try to come up with a plan of action, but my musings are interrupted by flickering of the lights followed by the click of a gun.

A voice addresses me: "_Agent _Walker, I know you are awake. Please don't insult my intelligence. Now get up!"

I don't recognize the owner of the voice, but I have a haunch as to who it is. I comply nevertheless. Sitting up very slowly, I use the blankets to cover my naked body from the strangers. I can't say that I'm not flustered and with good reason too. Moments ago, I had been a part of something truly great and beautiful. Now I have the muzzle of a loaded gun aimed directly at my forehead. What a buzzkill.

The man who currently is holding me at gunpoint has to be none other than the infamous Eraser, Clyde Decker. He has the professional G-man getup: The suit, the silver-streaked hair, the emotionless grey eyes and that cheeky smirk. Behind him are two other CIA operatives, also known as the nameless thugs. They're holding an equally disheveled Chuck by either arm. I'd shoot him daggers or perhaps threaten to slap him over the head if I wasn't so worried about his livelihood. Or my own for that matter. He stares at me with a guilty smile.

I ask calmly. "Why now?"

Decker's smirk grows wider. "You were vulnerable, and your boy-toy here was stupid enough to go the mini-mart to buy, what?" He snaps his fingers and one of the agents rips the plastic bag from Chuck's grasp, handing it to him. Decker opens it and gives Chuck an incredulous stare. "A box of condom and…tropical mango flavored incenses. Really?"

The first agent barks with laughter. "The kid got lucky." He gives Chuck a rough shake. "Didn't you?"

"Who needs audio surveillance when anyone could hear you two going at it from a five mile radius?" The other agent sneers. "Bad form, Walker, I expected a lot more out of you." He looks slyly at Chuck who tries to retain his composure. "You could've done better."

Chuck snaps his head towards the agent who spoke despairingly of me. His eyes narrowed, he shouts angrily. "Hey, leave her alone!"

I watch in horror as the agent takes a cheap shot at Chuck's stomach. It effectively shuts him up; he buckles onto his knees, gasping for air. I instinctively leap up to intervene, but the gun once again, prevents me from doing anything. I back down, my eyes flashing dangerously. Decker is amused by all of this, I think. He looks from me to Chuck several times; noting the obvious connection that we have, the blind trust and the commitment. He sees it all and hates it.

"He's fine, Walker." Decker assures me in a neutral tone while I can only glare. "Now, how about you and Bartowski get dressed while I inform my superiors that we found Orion's son and the traitor?"

* * *

><p><strong>An:<strong>Cliffhanger, oh no!

But hey, on the bright side, Chuck and Sarah FINALLY consummated their relationship. I mean, it was ten chapters for us, but only about a week's time for them. Also, Sarah's not a whore? Instead she was a twenty-two year old virgin? What is this blasphemy and who could've seen that coming? (Besides nearly everyone who guessed correctly in their reviews, starting with Uplink2. Bro-fist, bro.) I hope nobody perceives that little plot like as me preaching people to wait to have sex, because that'd be extremely hypocritical of me since well, yeah, you get the picture.

Chapter Eleven should be out next week if I have time to write it. I sort of have a few major papers due and well, school sadly comes first. Stupid priorities! I have it mostly written for months in advanced though, so there's that. It also marks the end of Part I of the story.

**An2:**BIG BIG QUESTION. I was thinking for Part II I'd let it be decided by my loyal readers on whether I keep the narration from Sarah's POV, or perhaps change it up and have it from Chuck's POV. Then Part III will be interchangeable each chapter from Chuck's and Sarah's respective POV. Please, please, please in your review, tell me what you think! If not, then I'm gonna do what I want. MUAHAHA!


	12. Chapter Eleven

**An:**Holy crap this took an unnecessarily long time to complete. I knew that I'd be dealing with tons of college stuff since finals were coming up, as well as holiday family-oriented fun. But damn, I clearly underestimated how busy I'd be...and totally unmotivated to write this chapter. I'd first off like to thank my buddy **Aerox **for helping me with some key points of this chapter. He also wrote some pretty awesome scenes from Chuck's POV as well! He may not have beta'd it this time, but hey, he influences my work a shitton so he gets praise. Yay praise!

This is the eleventh chapter of RI (barring the prologue which makes it twelve). It also ends Part I of the overall story. So I'll be taking a break to begin outlining Part II as well as editing the story so far in its entirety. That way, I can correct spelling/grammar/other inconsistencies that might contradict other plot points or what have you later in the plot. So feel free to give the updated version a read through whenever I get around to it, and definitely before you venture off to Part II.

Happy almost New Year!

Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Chapter Eleven<strong>

February 18th—19th, 2003

* * *

><p>I know there has to be many worse things than waking up naked in bed to find several CIA agents who have suddenly barged into your room, toting guns and demanding your arrest. But as I sit here with the covers drawn tightly over my breasts, listening to the sounds of Chuck wheezing from afar, nothing else comes to mind. This <em>is<em>the worst case scenario. Clyde Decker keeps a level grip on his government issued Glock. Its obsidian barrel is aimed directly between my eyes. He finally has me in his crosshairs and there's no mistaking his blatant eagerness to pull the trigger. It's clear that he doesn't care whether I survive this ordeal. He'd probably prefer me dead than alive. To him I'm simply a traitor; a nuisance that can interfere with his plans, whatever they may entail. He'll have to cover his tracks and leave no loose ends behind. I am expendable here. The revelation is a bit unsettling, but not entirely surprising.

"I said let's get a move on, Walker," snaps Decker impatiently. "I don't want to waste another second of my time in this shithole." His agitation flares when I do not budge, and I find myself still glaring vehemently in his direction. He flicks the safety off his firearm. "Are you listening to me? Unless you want a bullet in your brain, I suggest you follow exactly what I say and move!"

His threats aren't hollow so much as they are pointless. I'm not really afraid to die. Not anymore. The idea used to terrify me. For years it'd been the source of most of my discomfort and sleepless nights. As time passed however, I've grown desensitized by the prospects of death itself. Now I only fear the consequences of my death and what will become of Chuck if I can no longer protect him.

The CIA wants him alive. That's one thing I am absolutely certain of. The rest is shrouded in mystery, and I suppose when it comes down to it, Decker knows as much as I do. He's only following strict orders from the higher ups in the Agency. I can theorize the possibility that Chuck will be used as a bargaining chip to capture Orion. But I suspect it's not that simple. It's _never_ that simple. Their reasons must be much more sinister. Whatever their plans are, I won't let it come to fruition. They can't have Chuck. And he will remain safe under my watch for as long as I continue to submit to Decker's wishes. So with that being my only incentive, I have no other choice but to resign myself to temporary defeat.

However that doesn't prevent me from trying to manipulate the situation to my advantage. Much to my dismay, a compromise might be the only foreseeable solution. It can serve as a means to buy Chuck and I more time to devise our escape. To succeed, I'll have to approach this pragmatically. Like spy. Emotions can't come into play when the stakes are high.

Pushing my anger aside, I state coolly. "The way I see it, you have two choices: either drag me out in public like this, and I will make absolutely sure that we won't make it out of the parking lot. Or you wait." I pause, my voice turning to ice. "I'll be compliant under the condition that you tell your goons to put away their weapons and never lay a hand on Chuck again."

Decker stares at me like I'm mad. Then again, I _am_the one who's naked, unarmed, and making demands, so insanity might not be too outrageous of an accusation. Yet my resolve does not falter even when his scrutiny intensifies. With a sneer, he acquiesces. He gestures for his men to stand down. They both show their displeasure when holstering their respective weapons.

I watch them carefully, smiling as they obey Decker. It's a small victory, but a victory nonetheless and I'll take what I can get. Satisfied, my eyes drift from the agents to Chuck. He sits hunched over between where they stand. His head is down; chest heaving as he struggles to breathe normally. That cheap shot to the stomach came without warning. Neither of us had anticipated it, so I'm not surprised if Chuck has suffered from bruised ribs or worse. Seeing him so vulnerable like this feels like repeated stabs to the heart; my guilt turning into a physical aliment. Why is it so difficult to keep Chuck safe? My job has always been to protect him. Yet with every attempt, I'm only met with failure.

Eyes fixed on Chuck; I hardly listen to Decker addressing me. "Look, we won't hurt the kid unless he gets out of line." Liar. "I can't say the same about you however. So do not test my patience again, Walker."

I glower but refrain from challenging him. "Give us ten minutes to get our affairs in order, then we'll be ready to leave with you peacefully."

"You're done negotiating," says Decker. "You'll get five minutes. Bartowski will stay right here with us. The clock starts now so hurry up."

_Dammit. _I slide off the bed, taking the blanket wrapped around my body's length along with me. The agents snicker and I try to ignore them. I tell myself that this could've been a lot worse. But this realization only provides little comfort. I am still being violated by their probing eyes and inappropriate thoughts. I feel dirty, and I find myself shamefully retreating to the bathroom.

"Sarah…"

My feet come to a stumbling halt when I hear Chuck almost whimpering my name. I turn to face him; watching as he fights to stand up. He winces. Both arms clutch his ribs like they'll fall apart if he doesn't hold them in place. He lifts his head and glassy brown eyes catch mine. They're not as helpless as I feared they'd be. There's incredible strength muddying his depths. I shoot him a questioning stare, to which I am met with another pointed look.

_Resist, _he tells me.

I note the urgency in our wordless exchange and nod, hoping that Chuck has some kind of a plan. If not, then this little stint to bide time might end rather badly.

"What's the hold up here?" barks an agent. He cruelly shoves Chuck forward, and a gasp tears from his throat. "Quit ogling her, Bartowski. You get going, blondie."

"Chuck," I say, struggling to keep my tone neutral. "Could you help me pick my clothes?"

His smile is pained. "Sure."

Wrenching himself from the agent's grasp, Chuck begins to collect the articles of clothing littered across the room. Just as he bends over to grab my underwear, Decker grabs him violently by the collar of his shirt and pulls him upward in a rough motion. The gun is shoved in Chuck's face.

"Cut the nice guy act," warns Decker. "Or I will make this very unpleasant for you."

Chuck rebuffs his threat by sporting the cockiest of grins. "I seriously doubt that. If the CIA wants me so badly, it's probably in one piece right? So for all intents and purposes, I'm untouchable. Unless you want your ass chewed out by your superiors, I think the least you could do is step the fuck off and let me go."

Decker recoils, sneering. "You've got a lot of nerve, thinking that you're in a place to order me around."

"But I am," replies Chuck with an air of confidence. "Go ahead and let Tweedledee and Tweedledum over there beat me to a pulp again. Let's see what that'll accomplish in the long run. Probably a demotion, huh?"

I don't want to watch this. Every fiber of my being is telling me to look away because there's no way I'll enjoy the outcome. But like any train wreck, the human condition forces me to watch it all unfold in its entirety. Chuck proves that he has no trouble provoking Decker to an angry caricature of himself. His face turns a bright shade of red, and he's practically fuming. He looks vaguely reminiscent of an enraged bull. Which makes Chuck the matador in this strange analogy. So apparently the plan is to encourage Decker to blow himself to oblivion. I suppose if anyone can talk the Devil into setting himself on fire, it's Chuck.

"The CIA wants you," growls Decker intimidatingly. "But they didn't give any specifics in what condition. You can be perfectly unscathed or in a body cast. It makes no difference to me."

Chuck scoffs. "Please, you can't do shit."

The pieces of the puzzle do not quite come together until I see Decker's arm raise the gun.

"No!" I cry, and spring forward. It's too late to stop the arm from descending. Decker swings the Glock and Chuck takes the brunt force of it across his face.

I gasp when I hear the distinct crack of metal against flesh and bone. The terrible sound resonates throughout the entire motel room, and for a short moment, everything is quiet. Chuck slumps to his knees like when he had been struck earlier. One hand covers his mouth while the other keeps him from tipping over. I can already see the welt rising up, the blood pouring from his spit lip. The carpet beneath where he had fallen is drizzled with crimson droplets. The air is heavy with its coppery scent.

After my initial flood of panic, I rush towards Chuck. I wrap a free arm around his waist and try to hoist him upright. Decker watches without remorse while the other agents laugh at our expense.

"Chuck, what the hell were you thinking?" I yell, voice high and frantic.

He wobbles to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. I regard him with a disapproving scowl. Chuck half-smiles, face smeared with his blood, the right side of his cheek swollen and bruised. "That hurt like hell…"

"You're an idiot," I say with clenched teeth and begin to assess the damage. "I need to get you cleaned up; your clothes are ruined and your wounds might get infected if not tended to…" I trail off, realizing that this was the plan all along. Drawing a breath, I look up at Decker. "You can't let Chuck walk around looking like this in plain sight."

"Go get him cleaned up then," he snaps. "You have eight minutes. Make it quick!"

I don't argue for more time. Quickly I gather the rest of my clothes while Chuck rummages through his backpack for a fresh pair of jeans and an unworn shirt. Decker eyes us suspiciously; his gun poised at our backs in case we try to escape. However he misses the look Chuck steals me before he swipes his father's cell phone from the nightstand. He then limps beside me, scooping the bloodstained covers so that I do not trip over my feet as we both slip inside the bathroom together.

* * *

><p>The instant the door slams behind us, Chuck and I scramble to get dressed. I unceremoniously let the bed sheet drop. It pools at my feet before I slip into my bra and panties. Meanwhile Chuck watches from the corner of his eye; stumbling around the cramped space as he tries pulling both legs into his denim jeans. Despite the gravity of the situation, I find myself trying not to smirk when he spares a fleeting glance at my nakedness. As I toss on my tank top and pants, I begin searching calmly for some sort of makeshift exit.<p>

Chuck pokes his head through a solid black t-shirt and hisses. "How the hell did they find us so fast?"

"They never lost us," I explain, now fully dressed. "Like Daniel Shaw said, Decker has had his eyes set on us from the very beginning. He was just waiting for the perfect opportunity to catch us off guard."

At the sink, Chuck turns on the faucet and splashes water onto his face. Blood washes off his fresh wounds and circles the drain in red streaks. Running a hand through his dampened curls, he shoots me a panicky stare. "You don't think that…they _watched_us, do you?"

My eyes dart to the tiny window located above the toilet. Its thin netted film covers the wooden frame. With that removed, Chuck and I can easily slip through to the other side. I smile, turning my attention to Chuck, who waits for my response. I give him a feather-light, reassuring peck on his swollen lips. "The blinds were drawn so unless they had microscopic cameras placed throughout the room, they didn't see a thing. However, it seems like they sure heard us. But it's alright…"

"It's alright? Sarah, these guys have been creeping on us for a whole week! Jesus Christ, isn't that an invasion of privacy?"

"Chuck."

He squeaks. "What?"

I grab the switchblade that I left on the sink's countertop. "I found a way to get us out of here, so lower your voice please."

There's an urgent knock on the door. I disregard it while Chuck nearly trips over his untied shoelaces in surprise. "Three minutes left. Hurry the hell up!"

Chuck hollers back. "Just a minute!" Dropping his voice, he asks. "So what's the plan?" When I point to the window, he frowns. "That's a little compact, don't you think? You can fit, but there's no way…"

"You'll be fine," I assure him. "It's all about the entry anyway." I stand up onto the toilet seat and unsheathe the blade, stabbing the netting that veils the window. It tears with ease. "Plus, we don't have any other choice."

"Awesome," he comments dryly. "So what are we supposed to do once getting out of here?"

I peer out of the window and am met first with darkness, then hit by a cold breeze. The sun has already dipped from view and the skyline is an array of pastel colors that's rapidly being replaced by black. Both the visibility and temperature can be used to our advantage. I also note several more of Decker's men guarding the motel's entrance. There are a few cars sprinkled in the parking lot. An idea pops into my head.

"We find a car," I say, turning to face him. "It can't be the Mustang since we'd have to assume they have our license plate number, and can have the entire San Diego police force after us in a matter of seconds."

Chuck folds his arms. "We're grand theft auto-ing it, huh?"

My brows scrunch to convey my confusion. "Sure…I'll hot-wire the engine and then we'll drive as far away from here as we can."

He sighs. "Alright then, let's do this."

I step off the toilet seat and let Chuck go first. He draws out his hesitation till most of our free time is eaten up. "Chuck, come on you need to go now. Quit stalling. Everything is going to be fine. Trust what I say and just do it please? For me?"

"Sarah," he begins apprehensively. I realize that his hand is settled on his ribs again. Pain is weighing heavily in his countenance. "I can't do it. I think I broke a rib."

"Chuck, I know you're in a lot of pain, but you have to tough it out." I tell him, hating that I can't be more sympathetic. But now is not the time for coddling. It's time for action. "What you need is an adrenaline rush."

"How?"

I reply. "Fight or flight."

"Right, but how? That's an instinctual reaction, and I can't force it."

"Do that flash-thingy," I urge him. He gives me a puzzled stare. I sigh exasperatedly. "That's how you described whatever that thing in your brain was doing, remember? You flash and it tells you information, or how to fight."

"It happens at random though," argues Chuck. "I can't control it!"

"You're going to have to!" I shout. "Concentrate!"

He gives me a helpless look. "I can't…"

A fist pounds on the door and there's only seconds before Decker and his men storm in to overtake us. As a last resort, I whip out the switchblade and hold it in an intimidating fashion. "Flash or I swear to god, Chuck, I will cut you!"

"You wouldn't…" He pants, the rest of his words dying on his lips. While I would never actually _stab_him, (but maybe consider giving him a poke in the rear) the threat itself causes for the desired effect. Immediately, his eyes glaze over and pupils dilate before criss-crossing. This lasts for a split second. When Chuck comes out of his stupor, it's like he's an entirely different person. He smirks, then turns his back to me; grips the corners of the window before swinging himself through the tiny space. I hear his shoes slap against the pavement outside and then I follow suit.

The moment I land on the other side, both of us take off into a sprint. We run towards the first vehicle I see: a Dodge pickup truck. It may not be the best choice since it's much slower than the Mustang, but it has its advantages. It's durable and inconspicuous. Plus, there's a tarp that covers the truck-bed; a good place to hide just in case.

Chuck tries prying open the door. "Sarah, it's locked. What do we do?"

"Let me borrow your jacket," I say. He shrugs it off immediately and hands it to me. Wrapping it around my arm, I continue. "Don't freak out, and prepare to move fast. Ready?" He nods. "On three then. One, two, three!"

I thrust my elbow into the window and it shatters on impact. The alarm goes off; blaring loudly and creating a huge, unavoidable scene. As the CIA agents began to mobilize, I manage to unlock the rest of the doors before shouting. "Get in, Chuck!"

He doesn't need to be told twice. Chuck rounds to the opposite side of the car, flinging the passenger door ajar. He leaps inside while I dive into the driver's seat. I feel his eyes on me as I kick open the platform that's located on the underside of the steering wheel. Wires of different colors spill out. I untangle them, then rip the red wire apart, striking the frayed ends together. Sparks fly, but the engine won't start.

I am too busy to mind what is happening around me. Chuck rests a hand on my shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Uh, I don't want to sound rude or anything, but baby, you need to move just a wee bit faster."

"Why, is Decker already after us?"

From afar, I hear Agent Decker shouting at his men to find the fugitives at all cost. My heart turns to ice when he makes it abundantly clear that he wants me dead. If that isn't enough to make me work quicker, Chuck screaming bloody murder is: "Fuck, fuck, fuck! C'mon Sarah! Why isn't the car starting yet?"

I strike the wires repeatedly. On the fifth attempt, the truck finally roars to life. I sit up, throwing on my seatbelt while slamming the car into Drive. Glancing sideways at Chuck, I ask. "You were saying?"

Chuck is speechless when I tear out of the parking lot. I hear a cacophony of male voices yelling for us to stop, guns being drawn and firing at the truck's rear. I crank the wheel and we skid out into the busy street. I deftly weave in and out of traffic, looking periodically at the rearview mirror for any tails. There is no one following us. Not yet at least.

I sigh deeply.

"I can't believe this is happening," mumbles Chuck. "God, this is all my fault."

What are you talking about," I ask dubiously. "How is any of this your fault? Up until this morning, you've been in the dark about everything…"

"I know, I know I'm being stupid, but for some reason, taking the blame for stuff makes it easier to rationalize what's going on."

"That's really sad, Chuck." I admit and stop at a red light. "If this is anyone's fault, its mine hands down."

Chuck is shaking like a leaf. "Are we playing the blame-game now?"

"No," I say. "You shouldn't feel guilty about a thing. My job was to keep you out of harm's way. Not even five days and you probably have a couple broken ribs, a split lip and a bruised face."

"Hey, I'm not dead yet." He offers a feeble smile. "That has to count for something, right?"

"I let you, your dad and myself down. I was acting selfish when we…." I shake my head out of frustration. "I should never have dropped my guard like that."

My fingers clench the steering wheel and I do not finish. Instead I concentrate on the streetlight and will it to change while Chuck sits in brooding silence. I've upset him. What I said was uncalled for, and I regret it. But I am too angry and frightened to apologize. That, and I can't bear to look at him right now. Not when his face reminds me of the abuse he endured because I couldn't prevent it. My eyes begin to moisten and I sniffle as a lone tear trickles down my cheek. Chuck wipes it away with the flick of his thumb.

His voice is barely audible when he asks. "Do you regret it?"

"Regret what?"

"Us."

"No!" I object. "I just wish we met under different circumstances…"

"Same," he agrees. "But beggars can't be choosers and I'd rather have met you like this than not at all."

I give him a watery smile. "Even if that means we might be on the run for the rest of our natural born lives? You'd still be happy to have known me then?"

The light turns green and the cars ahead of us begin to move. However I keep my foot on the break and wait for Chuck's answer.

"I am exactly right where I want to be, Sarah." He tells me in soft voice. "Nowhere else can compare as long as I'm here with you."

At this, I burst into shaky laughter.

Chuck regards me curiously, and raises a brow. "What's so funny?"

"That was so incredibly cheesy," I giggle. When his face drops in disappointment, I add. "But it was also the sweetest thing I've ever heard."

"Does it deserve a kiss at least?"

"At least," I whisper, feeling his hot breath and the faintest smell of blood invade my senses. Just as our lips unite, a loud honk coming from another car rips us apart. We separate, both of our faces flushed in embarrassment.

"To be continued," teases Chuck. He briefly glances behind him while I start to apply pressure to the gas pedal. The car lurches forward and once we gain some momentum, I feel Chuck start to tap me on my shoulder. "Um… Sarah? We've got some company here."

My eyes flicker to the rearview mirror and I curse, "Oh fuck!"

"Wow, they caught up to us quickly," mutters Chuck. I spare a withering glance as he gives a tentative wave to the SUV behind us. I punch the gas and the truck accelerates through an intersection. "They look really, really angry."

"No shit."

"As do you apparently," he adds. "Didn't they like, teach you to be calm under pressure?"

"In case you forgot, I failed spy school."

"Oh…right."

I change lanes, cutting off a Semi in result. It slams the breaks and fishtails; swerving and nearly driving the SUV off the road. With some distance between us and our pursuers, I see an upcoming U-turn. It's a red light but I can't wait for it to turn green. With a few calming breaths, I ask. "Chuck, you're wearing your seatbelt, correct?"

"Yeah, why?" He stares at me, perplexed. I shoot him a knowing glance and his body freezes. Confusion turns to outright horror. "Wait; are you about to do something reckless?"

"Yes."

"_Sarah…_"

"Hold on please, in case we roll."

"ROLL?"

Once again I wrench the steering wheel to the left. The truck spins; tires screeching as I make the illegal turn. Oncoming traffic is heading right towards us and that's when I gun it. The engine explodes with enough horsepower to send us flying in the opposite direction. Most of the cars we merge with either honk or stop in the middle of the road. There are enough of them littered on the street that will keep Decker preoccupied for some time.

With a sigh of relief, I turn to Chuck. "That wasn't so bad…."

He has is face covered with both hands, shaking his head wildly as he moans. "Don't freak out, don't freak out, don't freak out…"

I lay a hand on the nape of his neck. "It's over, Chuck."

"Are we dead?"

"Not yet."

Chuck looks up at me, deadpanning. "That is the single least comforting thing I have ever heard."

"Thank you?" I say unsurely while driving aimlessly around the city. My mind trails off, deliberating where to go next. I doubt we shook off Decker which means he'll be back soon. Most likely with a vengeance too. The freeway and then maybe south to Mexico will be our safest bet. "How do you feel about fleeing the country, Chuck?"

I do not realize that Chuck's been rambling this entire time. "—either you're joking, which means you have the sickest humor ever, or you're being serious, and if so, than that doesn't instill much confidence in me right now." He finishes and I stare at him blankly.

"You didn't hear a single thing I just said now, did you?" I ask, with an eyebrow raised.

"Well," he sputters. "I bet you didn't hear a single thing I just said either!"

"Was it worth listening to?"

Chuck opens his mouth like he's about to retort. But before he can get a word in, there's a hail of gunfire that interrupts him. He jumps in his seat when a bullet whizzes by and hits the side mirror. I take this as my cue and make a hard turn to the right.

"Why are there guns?" He wails in hysterics. "I hate guns!"

The SUV is close behind. I try to shake them off by purposefully swerving between the three lanes, but Decker and his men are persistent. They follow and more shots are fired, clipping the truck and fortunately missing its wheels. Suddenly, the SUV revs its engine and rams into the truck's rear. The force of impact throws Chuck and I forward in our seats.

I manage to recover fast, ears perking up when I hear the unbuckling of a seatbelt followed by Chuck grumbling under his breath. "That's it, this is clearly not working."

The whiplash makes it difficult to rotate my neck. "Chuck," I wince. "What are you doing?"

Chuck opens the glass partition that divides the front two seats from the bed of the truck. He stands up and sticks one leg through the window. "Just keep your eyes on the road." He tells me with a wink. "I've got a plan."

"That's not exactly reassuring!"

There's no time for an eloquent response and so Chuck merely sports that lopsided grin of his before ducking out of the passenger's seat altogether. Once he disappears from view, I mentally curse before returning my focus back to driving. I try maneuver amidst the traffic in a more cautious manner; eyes darting from the road ahead and checking Chuck's progress from the rearview mirror.

I see him squatting in the truck bed. The gunfire has stopped all the sudden. I'd venture to guess it has something to do with Decker not accidently shooting the one person the CIA wants kept alive.

_What in the world is he doing? _I think, eyes narrowed. _If he thinks about jumping, I swear I'll kill him._

Chuck gradually rises into a half-crouching position. Steadying himself, he blindly gives me the thumbs-up before reaching over and unhooking the first latch of the tarp. I no longer fear so much for his livelihood when understanding what his angle is. In fact, my concerns are replaced with astonishment. _Clever boy._

As he is about to release the final clasp, Chuck gives a farewell salute before letting it loose. The tarp flies into the air and is sucked backwards; landing flat against the SUV's windshield. It blinds the driver and the gunmen, which gives us ample time to escape as their car spins out of control and swerves straight into a parked car.

I keep driving straight, blowing a sigh of relief. The partition slides open and Chuck crawls back inside the cabin. He falls effortlessly into his seat, looking smug. "I love it when a plan comes together."

He frowns when I offer no praise. My excitement is fleeting and I'm not impressed by his rash behavior. The only thought that occupies my mind is wondering if something had gone wrong.

Not meeting his gaze, I lash out. "What the hell is wrong with you? You could've died!"

"I know," he admits meekly. "But I didn't, and now we can get away..."

"Chuck," I drop my voice. "Just promise me…promise you won't do that again?"

"Trust me Sarah; I don't want to constantly put my life at risk like that," he replies seriously. I wait for the exception. "But please realize that I'll do anything I can to make sure you're safe. I expect you'd do the same for me, right?"

"Yes…" I pause. "I'm just afraid to lose you."

I take the main street for awhile until it comes to a dead end. Instead of circling around, I pull the truck into an empty parking lot. It's nighttime. The darkness is thicker than usual, but hundreds upon thousands of stars sprinkle the sky, surrounding the crescent moon that leers above us. With a tired sigh, I cut the engine.

"I'm afraid to lose you too," says Chuck. "It's weird to not think about losing someone in the conventional, 'break-up' sense. Because I don't want that either, but you know what I mean…"

"We might die," I finish solemnly. "Normal couples don't have to worry about that sort of thing, do they?"

"Nope, but we're not exactly normal to begin with." He smiles wryly. "On the bright side, at least death makes our romance all the more epic. Like Romeo and Juliet without the double suicide."

Chuck is trying to lighten the mood but for once, his irresistible charm is unable to assuage my growing apprehension. Death is something that I rather not think about. No matter how romantic it may seem, it's still worrisome.

Smiling faintly, I refrain from adding my two cents and Chuck takes the hint. We are met with silence as well as our own respective thoughts.

My heart is still pounding from Chuck's latest stunt; blood singing in my eardrums, making it difficult to concentrate on anything else. I shudder from the cold and Chuck wordlessly offers his jacket. A part of me wishes it was his Stanford sweatshirt. But it's at the motel with all of our other belongings. I doubt we'll ever find the chance to return there; get everything back.

Nevertheless, I choose to wear his hoodie despite its lack of sentimental value. His scent lingers, and for now that's enough to quiet the ringing in my head.

* * *

><p>As the night progresses, the temperature continues to drop. I find myself slumped over with my head resting against Chuck's shoulder. He snakes an arm around my neck while lazily petting my hair. He hums a soulful tune; lulling me to sleep. My eyelids grow heavy and I almost succumb, but my brain won't turn itself off. It warns me that Decker is still out there somewhere. He and his men are searching high and low for us.<p>

"I saw you grab your dad's phone back at the motel," I say and can't prevent a yawn from escaping me. "Do you have it on you?"

Chuck strokes my cheek. "Yeah, I got it. Why do you ask?"

"I dunno," I confess lamely."I was just thinking...does it have any reception?"

Chuck pulls a portion of it out of his pocket. "There's no signal," he murmurs. "Guess my dad has a shitty carrier."

I smile.. "Maybe we'll get a bar or two outside? If not, it'd still be in our best interest to ditch the truck for a new one..."

My stomach flutters when Chuck places a kiss at the crown of my head. "Good idea, babe. Listen, let me drive tonight ok? You're sleeping shotgun to wherever we're off to next."

I nod. "That's fine."

We leave the truck where it's at and begin to walk across the deserted lot in search for a replacement vehicle. There isn't a variety to choose from, so we can't be picky. Chuck reminds me that we need something sturdy, with four wheel drive and decent horsepower. I am content with just about whatever we can find on such short notice; preferably one with four wheels, a full tank of gas, and a heater.

Chuck and I hold hands as we make our trek into the darkness, only aided by the dim flickering of the streetlamps as our guides. Soon, and I point to the silhouette of a car in the distance.

"Please have seat warmers," he says. "Maybe cruise control and satellite radio even."

I chuckle amusedly. "Nice cars are a lot harder to break into, you know that right?"

"Don't ruin this for me," he whines. "It's not impossible, at least not for a highly trained, badass spy like yourself."

"Former badass spy," I correct him before remarking coolly. "Is that a challenge?"

"Maybe..."

"What do I get if I win?"

"Depends on the type of car and how advanced its security system is. So for example, what you did with the truck earlier deserves a kiss." Chuck grabs me by the hand, twirling me around straight into his chest. I glance up and he plants his lips firmly on mine. "Congratulations," he smiles.

"What about a Porsche with an installed Viper security system?" I ask as we draw apart. Chuck looms from behind me like a shadow, with his arms hugging low on my waist. His chin rests on the crook of my neck and he peppers every inch of my exposed skin with warm kisses. By now the car is a few yards away.

"Hmm...that's a good question," growls Chuck. He gives an affectionate nip at my earlobe. I shiver as his hot breath ghosts over my skin. "How about we—"

When he falls silent, I whirl around. "How about we what?"

Chuck releases me and I note the change in demeanor. He looks very unnerved. "The phone," he says. "It's vibrating."

"Is your dad calling you?"

"I...I don't know!"

"Answer it!"

He fumbles to retrieve the phone. "No, it was just a text message."

"What does it say?"

I wait for him to reply. At first, Chuck stares at it with a pensive frown. I think nothing of it other than he's concentrating. Then his breath hitches and my anxiety from earlier intensifies.

"Chuck, what is it?"

He mutters something under his breath. I read his lips as he repeats the word over and over again.

I guess. "Run?"

He nods and glances up at me. "Run!"

We break out into a sprint and dart towards the parked car. Neither of us think about stopping until we're both safely inside. I realize that I might have to break a window again. There won't be time to protect my arm from injury. So as I reach the driver's side, I brace myself for pain.

But it is already too late.

There are bright flashes of light and we're surrounded.

"No," I whisper.

Chuck is too stunned to move, much less speak. Though his shock tells me that he feels the same way I do.

The handful of men that emerged from the shadows closes in on us from all angles. Every one of them is armed; red dots from their sights appear on our chests. I watch as Chuck shuts his eyes and swallows hard. I try to keep composed even though I feel sufficiently sick to my stomach.

"Its game over you two."

I watch Agent Decker approach us with a skip in his step, and a victorious smile to boot. He walks around Chuck and I like a shark circling its prey. "I'll admit that was a nice effort. I haven't had to work this hard in years. The chase was exhilarating." He plants his feet right in front of me. "But did you really think that you'd be able to escape the CIA?"

I glare at him, so incensed I can hardly speak. "I'm glad that this was so entertaining for you, hunting us down like animals. You sick son of a bitch."

Decker clucks his tongue disapprovingly. "Watch your language, you're a lady remember? Now act like one."

"Fuck you," I snarl. "You're not my father."

"No I'm definitely not." He smirks. "I am not some lowlife rotting away in prison, just like you will be soon. Unless of course you continue having an attitude. Then you won't make it as far as this parking lot."

I am seething. The idea of striking Decker sounds more appealing by the second. But since he might honor his threat of killing me here, I hold off. Chuck senses my anger, then passing reluctance; acting fast to wedge himself between Decker and I.

"What are you going to do to her?" He asks boldly.

Decker raises a brow. "To Walker?"

"To Sarah."

"_Walker _is a traitor to this country. She has committed treason and will be punished accordingly."

"You mean just because she couldn't kill somebody in cold blood?" retorts Chuck, and I flinch at the not-so subtle anger coloring his voice. "I think she should be rewarded a goddamn medal for that."

Decker snorts. "No one gives a rat's ass about what you think, kid. You should be grateful that you won't be implicated with Walker. If I had it my way, the two of you would spend the rest of your days in Guantanamo."

Chuck grabs me roughly by the hand, entwining his finger with mine. I can feel his grip tighten but it doesn't hide the fact that he's trembling. "I won't go anywhere with you unless you personally vouch that Sarah will be treated with respect. She's a US citizen and deserve a fair trial."

"Walker lost all of her rights for the crimes she committed before defecting from the CIA," says Decker. "Besides that's not what I'm here for, Bartowski."

"What are you here for then?"

"I am just here to do the CIA's dirty work; cleaning up after their messes."

The crickets and bugs continue to chirp their nightly song, mixing with our shallow breaths and the shattering of Chuck's heart. Tears spring in his gorgeous brown eyes while he remains motionless. The darkness doesn't hide his look of devastation but rather amplifies it somehow. It's like his entire world has ended. I feel guilt wrap around my throat like a noose; strangling me with each labored breath.

"You're going to...?" He can't finish.

"Chuck, it's going to be ok." I whisper, but despite the reassurance I'm trying to instill, my voice breaks and I can't go on. My thumb strokes the top of his fidgeting hand that rests in mine.

"Did you know this was going to happen?" he asks quietly. I swallow and when the tears start to fall, he laments. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Decker intervenes before I can offer an explanation. He wrenches us apart without remorse. He steals a final stony look at me. "We'll make it look like an accident."

I ignore him. I'm too busy focused on Chuck. He's breaking right in front of me and I can't do anything to stop it. I feel numbed; and life isn't flashing before my eyes like it should. It's nothing how I envisioned it to play out. I don't reflect on my past, or think ahead to a possible future. All I see is Chuck.

I don't notice as one of Decker's men sweeps up from behind. Nor do I feel the prick of a needle as it sinks into my neck. The effects are instantaneous. As the sedative courses through my veins, I am no longer in charge of my limbs. I crumple onto the pavement with the same look of overwhelming sadness permanently etched across my face.

My vision clouds almost at once, but I still can see Chuck start to lunge towards me. He screams my name; the drug affects my hearing and so his cry sounds more like a distorted echo. He wears an expression of confounded terror but his features quickly twist into unimaginable fury.

In an instant, he whirls around, throwing a punch at Clyde Decker in his blind rage. His fist does not connect, stopping when several tasers discharge and lodge themselves into his body. The strong electrical current sends Chuck to his knees. He gasps in agony. When he falls over and lands flat on his stomach, he's only a foot away from where I lay. He lifts his head, fixing his glassy eyes with my half-lidded ones.

"Let's not waste anymore time here," Decker orders the other agents. "Get Bartowski, tie him up and throw him in the van. I'll take care of Walker."

I listen as pair of heavy feet approaches us. My heart pounding with each step. Sickness overwhelms me and I pray for a miracle, divine intervention. _Anything._ My brain screams with clipped truths. I lied about death. I am not fearless. I am petrified. I do not want to die. Not here. I want to live. I want to be with Chuck. Forever. I love him. He loves me. We love each other. Let me be happy. Let him be happy. Let_ us_ be happy. For once, please.

If my senses weren't dulled by the sedative, I'd be weeping. Chuck observes my dismay and reaches a feeble hand towards me, mouthing a tearful apology: _I'm sorry._

Leave it to Chuck to be apologizing at a time like this. He has no reason to be sorry. Everything he's done has been selfless and brave. I cannot say the same for me. This is my burden. My fault. But where I failed, maybe he can succeed. There's still a sliver of a chance that Chuck can pull through for the both of us.

I move my lips to form one word: _Flash._

Chuck looks forlorn. _I can't._

_ Yes you can, _I think and begin to rack my brain for a way to activate that damn thing in his head.

Whatever it is, it's obviously unreliable. Chuck has been in various situations where he could've defended himself but chose not to. Each time it had a trigger; the common denominator had been an emotional response. Most of which relied predominantly on me.

It clicks.

I know what to do. I have to tell Chuck the truth. He needs to know how I feel. It seems so silly that I've waited this long to come out and say it. Our time together was never meant to last. I understand this. But him knowing might make death come easier, or perhaps help us find salvation. Chuck will know what has always been on the tip of my tongue.

I love him.

Chuck needs to hear me say it before it's too late. If I can just muster enough strength to express my love, somehow, then maybe that'll be enough.

I summon the last of my energy and when I attempt to speak; my voice comes out in a strangled, raspy whisper. "I...love...you."

His eyes shine bright with tears. _Really?_

I blink once. _Yes._

When Chuck smiles, it's like he's at peace. There's sadness and a sense of acceptance conveyed by this single look. Undying devotion glints in his midnight eyes. He opens his mouth to reply (_I love you too), _but doesn't get beyond the first word.

His face goes frighteningly blank and my heart leaps into my throat. This is it. The hulking agent who had originally drugged me goes to apprehend Chuck, bending over at the precise moment in which he snaps from his trance.

In a blur or movement that can't be broken down into increments my eye can clearly recognize, Chuck catches the nameless agent off guard with a reverse kick to the shin, who then stumbles backwards in surprised pain.

Chuck quickly follows up by rolling onto his back; slamming the sole of his shoe into the man's now vulnerable chest. I can hear the sound of ribs cracking before the agent hits the ground with a loud, hollow thud.

The momentum of the attack leads Chuck into flipping effortlessly onto his feet. His stance wide, arms raised in an offensive manner. His face is blank, gaze hard and cold—fearless. There is nothing in him that closely resembles the Chuck I know. The man I love has been wiped clean. No emotion. No spark. Empty. There is no hesitation as he attacks the remaining agents with a flurry of punches and kicks.

His body moves without conscious thought. It acts on instinct alone; fluid in movement, deadly precise with every attack. These spies, while experienced, underestimated Chuck. Now they do not stand a chance.

It's a daunting dance, horrifying but somehow elegant. From where I lay helplessly on the ground, I encourage Chuck to defeat them all. There's eight men total. Eight men and they all fall at Chuck's hand. Their bodies are littered across the pavement. None of them move.

Chuck breathes steady. He scans the area before twisting his neck to locate the final threat that he must contend with. I follow Chuck and find Agent Clyde Decker standing opposite of him with his gun drawn. The red sight starts at Chuck's forehead, sliding to where it settles on his heart.

He tilts his head as if curious. Though I think he lost the ability to express human emotion. Chuck's like a machine. He is unaware; a puppet to whatever force is controlling him. He stalks towards Decker without any indication of fear. He cannot feel it. Therefore he can't understand that his life will come to an end if Decker decides to pull the trigger.

"Kid, don't test me."

He pauses, a flicker of his old self shining through his impassive façade. The storm brewing in his eyes clears and is replaced by confusion. This moment of clarity lasts for a fraction of a second. Chuck shakes it off and like a man possessed, he resumes his advances. Both hands ball into tight fights; clenching and unclenching. He looks downright ruthless.

"I will shoot you," warns Decker.

He continues his gradual retreat while Chuck follows undaunted. When he's backed against the car, Chuck relieves him of his gun. Decker is left unarmed and frozen in place.

I slip in and out of lucidity; the scene unfolding more like a dream teetering towards nightmare territory. Everything happens in slow motion. Chuck knocks Decker backwards, slamming him into the car's windshield with a well-placed kick to the stomach. Then before he can recover, Chuck pins him too the hood. He circles his throat with one hand and rifts the other, gun poised to shoot Decker in the face.

I watch Decker lift his arms as though to deflect a bullet. That last feeble attempt to protect himself causes Chuck to stall. His wrist is miraculously seized, preventing him from pulling the trigger.

"Let go of him, son," says in a soft, familiar voice that gives feeling back in my bones. I squint and recognize who spoke though his back was facing towards me. It is Chuck's father. Orion.

By now the surprises are just piling up so quickly that I can hardly wrap my mind around them. But Chuck's fingers don't relax, and I try with all my might to scream his name. Not a sound escapes my lips. The drug's effects are too strong now, and have overwhelmed me completely. Only a tear manages to trail down my cheek as everything begins to grow fuzzy.

Voices buzz in and out. Chuck's grip on the gun falters, his dark gaze darting from Decker to me. His emotionless mask slips to reveal a myriad of emotions. One of them is righteous anger, and it's aimed specifically at Agent Decker.

Chuck growls. "Payback's a bitch."

Before I can comprehend what he had said, Chuck thwacks the butt of the gun against Decker's temple. The collision itself is like a gunshot. He then collapses onto the ground, out cold.

My vision clouds, blood surging into my head again. The last images I can recall are of Chuck dropping the gun and rushing towards me. His father and another figure are close behind. I can't find the will to stay awake much longer. Not even as Chuck slides to his knees, caressing and begging me to stick with him. I stare into his eyes and offer him a weak smile.

Then I faint.

**End Part I**

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><p><strong>An<strong>: So cliffhanger huh? Sorta. I'll admit that the chapter started off strong, then I got tired and absentminded so it turned into a sloppy mess. I will, I repeat, I WILL revise this story eventually. Also if anyone notices some inconsistencies, please feel free to PM me and let me know what the fuck I failed at. I can take constructive criticism, guys.

Please help me get to 200 reviews too!

On another note, Part I will be an eBook once I do revise it.


	13. Chapter Twelve

**An: **Would anyone like to hear my overly elaborate excuse for why it took me so damn long to update? No? Well, here it is anyways. College is back in session. I got a job. I bought a cat. Chuck ended and it tore me up. I felt like writing one-shots and updating some of my other stories. That's basically the gist of it. I regret nothing.

This was going to be a longer chapter, but I felt bad for taking forever, so here it half of what I meant to publish. Thank you guys for being so patient. Also, thanks to **Aerox **and **c****huckaddict **for helping me with some stuff. :)

I am 11 reviews from obtaining the magical 200. If we could boost that to say, 210, I'd be a lot more motivated to update faster than I have been. So just to reiterate: more reviews = more updates.

Enjoy Part II everyone!

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><p>Part II<p>

Chapter Twelve

**The Runaways**

February 19th—August 8th, 2003

_"True love, like any other strong and addicting drug, is boring — once the tale of encounter and discovery is told, kisses quickly grow stale and caresses tiresome… except, of course, to those who share the kisses, who give and take the caresses while every sound and color of the world seems to deepen and brighten around them. As with any other strong drug, true first love is really only interesting to those who have become its prisoners. And, as is true of any other strong and addicting drug, true first love is dangerous."_

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><p>The next morning, the sun is shining outside when I wake up. I'm lying on a hollow surface, curled up beside Chuck with a blanket draped over us both. He's dead to the world, but his fingers remain interlocked with mine. It takes me several moments to fight the disorientation. Everything from last night floods into my mind like light cutting through fog, and then I suddenly remember. These memories jolt me wide awake.<p>

I raise my head and look around. I don't know where we are, but it's definitely not some deserted parking lot. It appears to be a giant building, a warehouse maybe. There's plenty of daylight pouring through the broken window panels. Everything inside is illuminated, and as my eyes continue to roam, I conclude from its eroding condition that this place has been abandoned for quite a long time.

It's large space is empty save for the two of us. Chuck and I are currently huddled in the farthest end of the building, with him slouched against the wall while I rest below him. I shift myself into a more comfortable position with my head resting on Chuck's thigh. I am sore, but pleasantly so. It's not agonizing like I imagine it to be. No. It's just my body telling me that I've survived a near-death experience.

It feels euphoric to know when you've beaten the odds. It feels even better when you're not alone either. Chuck is right here beside me. We're together. No prison cells. No bunkers. Here, somewhere—together.

For now we're safe.

I smile faintly, returning to my spot on Chuck's lap. He stirs every now and again; playing absently with the ringlets of my hair. He slides further down to stroke my face in the palm of his hand. His eyes are closed throughout, head bobbing as he drifts in and out of consciousness.

I relish in his gentle caress. He makes it something of a habit, always having to touch me. It is a tendency I'll never object to. Though I figure there's a deeper meaning behind it. Like his subconscious has to rationalize that I am really here. It's sort of sad, but also strangely comforting that he needs to be constantly reassured that I even exist. And if I do exist, that I will never leave him.

For awhile, I contemplate this in a sort of misty state courtesy of the sedative's linger effects. I listen contently to the sounds of the building settling, my musings tapering off only when a hoarse voice calls out to me:

"You're alive."

I turn my stiffened neck to find Chuck looking down at me with a weary, but relieved expression. I get the sense he woke up not long after me; spending his first waking moments enjoying the silence as I have. His brown eyes capture mine, warm and inviting without the slightest trace of the darker, emptier pair I had seen the night before.

My Chuck has returned.

"All thanks to you," I say.

"What?" He asks. I'm unsure if he's joking or not. "What did I do?"

"You saved my life. Don't you remember? Decker and all of his men had us surrounded, and you fought every single one of them."

Chuck doesn't quite comprehend, for a few seconds. It is as if realization slowly dawns on him, and he begins to grasp the enormity of what happened. Chuck's face becomes blank. His eyes very alert, startled.

"I killed those men," he whispers.

"Killed them? Chuck, you didn't kill anybody—" I begin.

"No, I did," he says, absolutely horrified. "There were eight of them. I remember. I…"

"Chuck, please calm down. You couldn't have killed them. I was there. I watched it happen. You hurt them, but that's all." I'm surprised by how calm and reasonable I sound. I add. "But you did almost kill Decker."

"What stopped me?"

"Not what, but who," I answer. "It was your dad. Apparently the cell phone was a GPS tracking device like we initially thought. He knew exactly where we were and tried to warn us to run. That's why he sent you that text. It was a stroke of pure luck that he had gotten to us when he did. Even a second later and you would've…" I trail off.

Chuck doesn't speak for awhile.

"Nobody died," I remind him again. Though his denial makes me reconsider whether what I witnessed was real, or a byproduct of the drug itself.

A disturbing thought pops into my head. _What if he is right?_

I'm not sure if I'd regret having a world that is rid of those corrupt agents. But I can't help but to dwell on the possibility that they are indeed, dead. That would mean I am sitting in the lap of a killer, yet, I am quite happy to sit here, his arms encircled around me.

Finally, he asks. "What happened to me?" And the desperation laced in his words makes my insides twist.

"I don't know, but I promise we'll find out."

He nods, showing brief hesitance before speaking in a much softer tone. "You said you loved me."

_At least he remembers that, _I think. "Yes."

"Did you mean it?"

At first, I'm astounded by his insecurity. But then I am reminded that his caution is warranted. Stanford wasn't too long ago. A week has passed since his life was turned upside down. Since my life has taken a similar unexpected turn as well, I can't fault him for behaving with such unease.

However, understanding this still does not prevent me from exclaiming: "Of course I meant it! Why would you think otherwise?"

My outburst turns his face beet red. He dips his head embarrassedly. "Uh, I thought it was a heat-of-the-moment sort of thing."

"It was," I admit. Chuck looks confused, and I elaborate. "But that doesn't mean I wasn't sincere. Sometimes the difference between life and death will show a person what matters to them most. I love you, Chuck. I just figured that if I was going to die, you had the right to know how I felt about you." _And then maybe it'd trigger one of those flashes where you'd save us both, _I want to add but refrain from doing so.

Chuck mulls this over. I expect him to give a similar response, like "I love you too, Sarah." But he doesn't. He's oddly quiet. For a moment, I begin to suspect his feelings for me don't run as deep. I tell myself that's a stupid thought. Love makes you act crazy sometimes, that might be why I'm becoming as neurotic as Chuck.

"Chuck—" I try, but get no further. He cups my face with his hands before I can finish my sentence. Then his mouth locates mine, and my worries melt away.

Oh god, he can kiss. I'll never understand why anyone would let a guy like Chuck go. He's the definition of perfect. Well, maybe not Jill Robert's description of perfect, but my kind of perfect. We might have a few problems with communicating on certain levels, but this isn't one of them. Words are sometimes useless. I have no complaints for relying on our lips to do the talking instead.

I nip at his lips with my teeth. He makes a sound like a growl, and I suddenly taste blood. The growl in question is more of a wince and I pull back in surprise.

"Are you ok?" I ask with concern. "I'm so sorry, Chuck. I forgot you were hurt and got carried away."

Chuck smiles weakly. His split lip is mostly covered in dried blood, but must be tender nonetheless. I place a hand on the curve of his cheek, noting the spot where Decker had struck him down with disdain.

It's a large welt; swollen, shiny, red and somehow glossy. It makes my blood boil to think of the chances of it fading into a scar. Chuck flinches as my fingers trace lightly over the contusion. I don't want to entertain the idea that he also has to contend with the possibility of a couple of broken ribs as well.

How he is even conscious and talking is a miracle.

"I'll be fine," he assures me. I don't anticipate another kiss until he gives me a little peck on the forehead. "I thought you should know that I love you too, Sarah Walker."

Smiling, I press my face into his chest. While I welcome the steady rhythmic beating of his heart, Chuck rubs my back slow and soothingly. I sigh, savoring the solace of his embrace and the lengthy silence.

This seems to last all for about a second. Our moment of reprieve is disrupted by an array of noises; like a heavy door sliding ajar followed by two sets of footsteps that echo throughout the building's interior.

I am desperately trying to ignore whoever has encroached on us, but my spy-senses encourage me to confront the intruders. Chuck has frozen up. I can feel his body grow tense, breath shortening like he's seen a ghost or worse. Then he starts rising to his feet, forgetting that I am still clinging onto him like a barnacle for dear life.

When the footsteps cease, I overhear someone clearing their throat. This causes me to peak over my shoulder. Halfway across the length of the building stands two men; one is none other than the elusive Stephen Bartowski, Orion. While the other is the not-so familiar face of the handsome, young spy whom I met last summer at the Academy during seduction training.

I blink, "Bryce Larkin?

Bryce gives me a curt nod that confirms my suspicions, and then sports a disarming grin that suggests he remembers _exactly_ who I am. While I'm relieved that neither of these men are complete strangers, I do find myself bombarded with thousands of unanswered questions that leaves me both wary and confused.

"It's nice to see you again, Sarah." Bryce takes another step forward and Chuck is suddenly in front of me, eyes ablaze. This isn't manufactured anger triggered by a flash. It's wholly genuine. And he is scary as hell. "Hey, Chuck. Long time no see, huh pal?"

Chuck struggles to remain civil, "Bryce…"

Unlike Bryce, I don't miss the obvious edge to Chuck's tone. He practically growls his name with a voice cutting like a razor. For someone who is supposed to be exceptional at reading people, Bryce is failing to notice any of this. He continues to smile cheerfully, oblivious to the aura of hatred that emanates from Chuck in waves.

I can almost feel the heat palpitating between them. It's one-sided animosity of course, but still. So I take this as my cue to back off. I make by subtle retreat as Bryce comes closer.

"I really missed you back at Stanford," says Bryce. He still sounds rather happy, but there's a hint of something else laced in his words. Is it guilt? "It's not the same without you."

There it is. Stanford. That's the connection that ties both Chuck and Bryce Larkin together. They went to the same university! It all makes sense now. Orion had mentioned that Chuck's expulsion was unjust and partially his fault. So upon realizing this, it's safe to assume that Bryce lent a hand in getting Chuck kicked out as well.

Taking this into account, Chuck's anger does seem to be wholly justified. When Bryce finally senses his friend's hostility, his lips unfurl into a soulful frown. Just as he opens his mouth to speak (probably to begin his long thought-out apology) it's too late. Chuck tackles him as soon as he moves within distance. He brings Bryce down, and may have whacked his face against the hard floor once for good measure.

Orion and I both watch the scuffle unravel. He looks rather stunned by his son's violent behavior, which shouldn't come as much of surprise after witnessing him singlehandedly take care of those CIA operatives. That's my reasoning for not inserting myself into this highly volatile situation. I am no mediator. So as the seconds pass by with Chuck getting a few punches at Larkin, Orion finally decides to intervene.

"Charles, he's had enough."

Chuck ignores him. He sits on top of Bryce with both fists clenching his shirt. "How could you do this to me?" He shouts, shaking him. "I thought we were friends, Bryce! I trusted you and you ruined my life!"

I flinch at the harshness of his tone. Hurt and angry doesn't begin to describe how I feel at his assessment. But I realize that Chuck is too riled up to notice my dismay. He's too focused with the past. His life was ruined. So is whatever we're sharing now—this afterlife, is it only the backup plan? Am I the rebound? Just a convenience?

I stop myself. _You're spiraling, cut it out. Chuck loves you. He's just angry at this bastard for putting him in this position. _This mollifies my fears somewhat, and I pay silent thanks to Bryce Larkin for making it possible for Chuck and me to have met in the first place.

Meanwhile Bryce coughs a mouthful of blood, nursing a fat lip. "We're still friends…I did this to keep you safe, Chuck."

"Then what do you call sleeping with my girlfriend?" Bryce looks too ashamed to respond. Chuck laughs bitterly. "I should've known. Fuck you, Bryce."

Bryce looks near to tears, probably due to the pain he's withstood coupled with Chuck's verbal beating. I have never seen Chuck so enraged. It's unsettling for me to watch. I know that he has the right to be angry, but this is beyond angry. This is something else. I begin to question whether his latest flash has intensified his aggression, causing an adverse effect to his brain.

For that to even be a possibility has me feeling queasy.

Orion's calm voice brings me back to focus. "You shouldn't direct your anger at one person, son. If you want to blame someone for what happened to you, then blame me."

Chuck drops Bryce onto the ground, fixating his hardened glare at his father. "Wait, you're behind this?"

"I couldn't let the CIA get their hands on you."

"What gives you the right to decide how my life plays out?" asks Chuck, standing up. "You were barely present for most of it. Mom and you bailed on Ellie and me. As far as I'm concerned, you have no say."

Orion sighs. "Would you let me just explain myself before you come to anymore conclusions?"

When Chuck smiles, I shiver. Hollow and empty, its devoid of everything that makes it so great. "Fine, let's hear it then," he says coolly. "If you can't change my mind about how you're just a glorified absent father who's overstepping his goddamn boundaries, then this conversation is over."

"Fair enough," replies Orion.

Nodding, Chuck turns on his heel and walks up to me; grabbing me by the hand. He always seems to do this whenever he feels threatened. Not that I mind. But if he squeezes any tighter, he'll cut off all blood circulation.

We stand together for several minutes, both of us muted by our separate thoughts. Mine are plagued by whatever is tormenting Chuck, so I spare a glance behind me. I watch as Orion helps Bryce to his feet. Misty blue eyes find mine, his lips formulating a pained, bloody grimace. I can see his regret clear as day.

But will Chuck?

I give him an affectionate squeeze, muttering. "You're spiraling, Chuck."

His anger subsides when he glances over at me. There's hurt shining in the depths of his gaze. "Yeah well, wouldn't you?"

My eyes divert to the bloodstained floor. It's not very often that I am left speechless.

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><p><strong>An: <strong>Yep, twas a short update. But I'll get Chapter Thirteen out accordingly.

Next time on Redeeming Intentions: Orion justifies why he's been such a shitty father. Chuck and Sarah learn about the dastardly plot surrounding them both. Did those 8 agents really die at Chuck's hand? What happened to Decker? Oh, and introduction of the Intersect too.


	14. IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE

**Epic Author's Note of Awesomeness: **Alright, so time for good news/bad news. I apologize profusely for taking nearly an eternity to update this story. There are plenty of reasons for that. One of which will explain the whole good/bad news I alluded to previously. First, the bad news: I am probably quitting fanfiction. Or at least taking a hiatus for an undetermined amount of time. So along with **Redeeming Intentions, **and my other unfinished stories are likely to remain...incomplete. This is because of the good news (or at least good from my point of view) I am currently working on my very first novel! Yay! It's in the planning stages (aka loads of outlines, ranging from plot, characters, and settings etc) and I'll actually start writing once my Spring semester ends in May. If y'all (I have no Texas/southern drawl, I'm just lazy and have a fondness for contractions) are even remotely interested in said novel, feel free to PM me and I'll be glad to clue you in on this daunting venture of mine.

[Thanks to **Aerox **as always for being my soundboard]

Anyway, I'd like to thank each and every one of you guys who read, favorite'd, and reviewed my stories on this website. You're the prime reason as to why I am even attempting something like this (and btw, I am in no way shape or form suggesting that I'll suddenly be the new Suzanne Collins after this. The chances of it getting published by a third party is slim. Also, I'm perfectly content of being a high school teacher and writing on the side. It's my hobby and passion more than anything else.) So my gratitude goes to you guys, and I hope once I finish this book, y'all be interested in reading it!

Thanks once again for your endless support!

Wish me luck! :X 3

-ShinyJayne20


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